


the 22nd Phantom vol 1

by Scottyshuman



Category: Highlander: The Series, The Phantom (2009)
Genre: Adventure, Adventure & Romance, F/M, Horses, Maori gods, New Zealand, Supernatural Elements, fictional african coutry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 186,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22187656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scottyshuman/pseuds/Scottyshuman
Summary: The 22nd Phantom finds a wife in New Zealand. Written with an emphasis on the woman's point of view.Taken with the movie parameters more than the strip or the comics, so there is some actual supernatural stuff going on. This ended up a 300 plus page novel, no chapter breaks in the original work. it is the first thing i ever managed to find an end for. The Highlander is peripheral in this volume, but plays a more active role later. I fudged a little on the Maori mythology, but not much, it's pretty amorphous. The movie and comic strip are of the 21st Phantom, for almost 90 years, and I figure, taken the movie in the thirties, this is set in the 70's with the next in Line.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Phantom chases some arsonists to New Zealand, comes back to Bengalla with his new bride and her horse. Story is from that to the wedding. Stuff happens in between.
> 
> Every major comic book company has had a whack at this character, and not all of them did it justice. Having said that, I am pretty sure King Features still owns the rights to the Phantom, not sure about the Highlander, but not me.

Donna McLaren brushed her best friend’s face with her hand in the dark, whispering to him soft endearments. The stall was quiet and empty but for the two of them, for it was night, well past the show’s end for the day. One half of the outer door stood open, giving a glimpse of the stars over the hill beyond the show grounds. Tim nuzzled her affectionately, standing ankle deep in the straw that bedded the stall, his kind brown eyes at no disadvantage in the dimness.

  
“Why can’t I find someone like you to love me, Tim?” asked the tall woman, stroking his neck while she held him close. “Someone strong and smart and handsome and nice. As good as you, but human?”

  
The big bay gelding blew gently through his nostrils, ruffling her hair with his breath. Donna, long used to ascribing human thoughts and motivations to her horse, interpreted this as commiseration. As sensitive to his mistress’ moods as she was to his, it probably was.

  
“Not like that stupid oaf Mummy set on me last time,” she sighed, wallowing in self-pity, something she allowed herself only within Tim’s stall. Truth be told, she had no one else close enough to really talk to about her personal problems. And, after all, Tim was just as helpful and sympathetic as most humans could have been, and there was far less chance that he would tell secrets, if she had any.

  
“Do you know that stupid twit, Martin Whatever-his-name-was, couldn’t tell me what the difference was between a hunter and a jumper? Why would Mummy think I’d like him well enough to talk to, let alone to go out with? I know, I know, because his family has money, and his mother knows Mummy. It never occurs to my parents that anybody that desperate to meet me has to have something wrong with them.”

  
The gelding was used to such soft, one-sided conversations with his rider, for she was more often found in his stall than her bed when on the show circuit. He was perfectly happy that way, being a social sort, and he found the company of his human much more civilized than other horses. Horses might bite or kick for no particular reason, and he, who was far too well mannered to do so, found the company of his rider preferable.

  
“I just want to find someone who’s got brains and isn’t completely self-absorbed,” she sighed into his black mane, invisible in the darkness, but comfortingly horse-scented. “A man who might possibly make a difference in the world, not just take up space, like some wretched knick knack on the mantle. If only I could find a tohunga with mana enough to turn you into a man, Tim. I’m sure we could find a way around that sterility thing, aren’t you?”

  
The bay suddenly raised his head alertly, no longer listening to her soft voice, but focused on the world outside their stall. His attitude was entirely familiar to the tall woman, for he had always taken it as his duty to warn her of the presence of others. Often, this thoroughbred trait had helped her avoid being caught trespassing or skinny-dipping, and she never ignored his ‘people alerts.’

  
Not keen on being found alone on the grounds at this hour, Donna peered cautiously from the open Dutch door. After the pitchy black of the barn, the starlit night seemed almost bright. Far more light than was needed to see the three men moving boldly down the road by the barn. Donna ducked back as they passed, and smelled petrol, heard the sound of sloshing liquid in the containers they carried.

  
“Here?” said a gruff voice, not loud, but thunderous to Donna’s ears. It seemed to be just outside Tim’s door.

  
“Nah,” denied another unpleasant voice, sounding almost American. “Boss wants the fire to start at the end of the building. Keep goin’.”

  
“Burn just as good from the middle,” said another man. “Better, maybe, with this wind.”

  
“Boss has a client wants it done this way,” growled the second voice curtly. “You cross the Firebug, you get burned. I do what he says.”

  
Donna was petrified for a moment as the trio tramped on down the barn, unaware of her presence. They were going to start a fire, she thought, shocked and horrified. Nothing was more terrifying or awful to horses or horsemen than such a disaster, and the idea of deliberately setting one turned her gut. Tim nuzzled her, now that the men were gone, and her mind suddenly kicked her into motion.

  
She couldn’t just run for help, she realized, for she was probably the only two-legged person on the entire grounds other than the arsonists. The nearest place she could expect help was the motel pub across the highway and simply screaming would not be very likely to attract the right attention. It would, in all likelihood, get her killed before the fire got set, accomplishing little. She would just have to stop them herself, if she could.

  
Part of her laughed scornfully at that melodramatic decision, but she was already acting on it, trying to move silently. She exited Tim’s stall into the barn’s covered interior, lit by dim and sporadically spaced electric bulbs. She cursed silently at the fate that had let her leave her machete in her Range Rover, and settled on the nearest thing to a weapon in sight, her pitchfork. Snatching up her electric torch, she ran down the aisle as quietly as she could, nerving herself up for combat, should that be called for.

  
She was just in time to see the last of the three men enter the hay barn, an open shed built onto the main barn to keep hay out of the rain and damp. The sides were not solid, for it had been dry lately, and air circulated through the structure, which was only partly lined with hay bales. The show only had one more day to run, so no more was needed.

  
Donna gripped her flash in her left hand, her makeshift weapon in her right, and crept forward to the ‘door,’ a cleared area for barrows to go in and out. Hearing the slosh of liquid and smelling the chemical odor of petrol, Donna snapped on her light and stepped into the doorway.

  
“Hold it right there,” she commanded, doing her best to imitate her latest movie hero, John Wayne. “Put down those cans and come out here.”

  
“Who are you?” asked one ruffian, flipping open a lighter. He peered at the bright light, but could see nothing beyond it.

  
“Someone else who prefers to remain unseen,” Donna replied, realizing that she was loosing any advantage she might have had. Any minute they would simply toss a match and run over the top of her. Another of the blinded thugs struck a match and moved toward the light. Donna prepared to fight, wondering if, after they ran over her, she could put out the fire, or scatter it.

  
Without warning of any kind, something of shiny purple sliced through the beam of the torch, too fast to identify. After it was gone, so were the lighter and the match, right out of the hands of the men who had held them. A fight broke out in the hay shed, and the nearest man went straight at Donna, in an apparent attempt to escape. Donna dropped her torch, which went out, and was fending off the arsonist with her pitchfork, when he was yanked back into the darkness. A short scuffle ended with a meaty sound, much like a hoof on flesh, and all was silent for a long moment.

  
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” said a deep, polite voice, commanding in spite of its manners, “I could use something to tie these boys up with.”

  
“Just a moment,” said Donna in her normal voice, tossing her pitchfork out of the way and feeling for her torch. Finding it, she discovered that only enough light to barely make out shapes was now forthcoming. She found several lengths of baling wire and some plastic hay twine and cautiously felt her way toward the Voice.

  
“Will these do?” she asked, shining what little light there was left on her handful. “There’s lots more laying around.”

  
“Very nicely, thank you,” said that marvelous voice from the petrol-scented dimness. “Would you mind tying up that fellow by your left foot?”

  
“Uh, certainly,” she said, as an unseen hand took her gleanings from her palm. Cautiously using the indicated foot, Donna quickly found the man in question, motionless on his face. Her searching hands found several more lengths of baling wire and she rather tightly bound her arsonist’s hands, then the feet for good measure. By that time, no amount of shaking elicited light from the torch, so her fellow arsonist hunter remained unknown.

  
“Nice job,” said the man, an American, by his accent. “Would you mind calling the police and reporting this?”

  
“Um, I’d much rather you do it,” she told him, feeling a shiver run through her body. “I’m not sure what I’d say. You could use the telephone in the office, I’m sure. It’s never locked.”

  
“If you’d show me where that is?” he asked, his voice a warm, almost gentle command. A firm, strangely careful hand took hers to help her up, and she wondered if the petrol fumes were getting to her. “Then I’ll need to make myself scarce.”

  
“Are you under cover, then?” asked Donna, staggering a little in the fresher air as they moved outside. “This way.”

  
“You could say that,” the voice told her, a sort of echo making itself felt inside her at each word. Donna found that she drew confidence from that voice, and wondered what it’s owner looked like. His hands were big, but gentle with her, callused and strong, she had noticed. By the dim light of various sources, Donna saw that her escort was very tall and solid, but moved like a panther, silent and easy. She wanted him to talk some more, for that voice was comforting, powerful, yet safe, if not yet friendly.

  
“In there,” she told him, reaching the show office, a plank building left over from the war years, back when this had been an army training camp. Donna suspected that that was also the origin of the much-battered telephone, as well as most of the office furnishings. “Just inside the door, on the right, on the desk.”

  
The silent man ghosted up the stairs, a trick of starlight seeming to shine from his head and shoulders, as if he were a moving statue of marble. A low rumble of his voice came from the office for a moment, then he re-emerged, and seemed a bit startled to find her still waiting.

  
Without a word, he moved back the way they had come, and Donna, her curiosity in control, followed. He seemed able to see in the dark as well as move like a jungle cat, she thought, stumbling after him as he moved up the hillside behind Tim’s barn. Near the top of the slope, but below the crest, he stopped and settled into a kind of crouch, waiting, watching the barns. Donna did her best to imitate him, without invitation or protest.

  
What am I doing, she wondered, seeing Tim’s eyes flash reflectively far below. I know nothing of this man. He moves like a ghost, has the voice of an angel, is polite and American. Could he be some sort of secret agent, she puzzled, or an international policeman? His sheer size made his silence and apparent speed unusual, for such men had little need for silence, and seldom had to develop speed. Had he been following these arsonists for some reason, she wondered, seeing his silhouette dimly against the hill. She wanted to ask, but kept silent, afraid that he might vanish.

  
“Why were you there?” he asked softly, just barely audible over the police sirens. Flashing lights from the three cars, surely most of those in the district, gave a little more light now, and Donna noted a gleam of silver off of a belt buckle, much like cowboys wore in the movies. Paler shapes seemed to indicate a deeply shadowed face, or very large, dark eyes.

  
“I was with my horse,” Donna confessed, feeling as if she could tell this man anything, though a part of her cried out to run from him. “I’ve been worried lately, oh, about a lot of things. I talk to Tim, my horse, and he makes me feel better. He doesn’t understand, but he makes me feel better. Tonight, he told me there were men outside that didn’t belong there. I knew what they were about when I saw them. I wouldn’t have got in your way if I had known you were after them. I’m sorry if I queered your pitch.”

  
“You were sleeping in the barn?” he asked, no surprise in his voice, just a question. “I thought most of the show people were staying in the motel across the road.”

  
“Oh, I have a room there,” she admitted, wondering why he made her feel so safe. It wasn’t like her to feel so instantly comfortable with someone she hadn’t even seen yet. “I get there eventually, but I like to be with someone, and Tim is my best friend.”

  
“Why don’t you tell me what you were telling him?” he suggested, easing his shoulder. The lights from the cars now below them flashed on the ring, illuminating it for an instant and the skull it bore. Donna felt a shock of comprehension, of enlightenment.

  
“The Phantom,” she breathed, realizing what had seemed so superhuman about him. This was no secret agent or Interpol inspector. “Why do you want to know? It’s nothing important.”

  
“It was to you,” he said, his voice softening. He eased his shoulders again, feeling the blood sticking the cloth to his back, scabbing. “Pretend I’m your horse, if you like. There’s about as much chance of my repeating anything you tell me as of Tim doing so.”

  
“Like a priest?” she said, raising an eyebrow in unseen question. “Or a psychiatrist?”

  
“That’s why you talk to Tim, isn’t it?” he pointed out, watching the three men being loaded into the police cars. Yellow tape was strung around the hay barn, and the place would be populated well into the early morning.

  
“You must be a psychology major,” she grumbled, pleased, but not wanting to show it to him. But who could deny this man anything he asked? “Oh, alright. I’ve got nothing else to do. You won’t, uh, disappear or anything, will you?”

  
“I don’t think so,” he said, his unseen smile warm in his voice. “I’d like to be sure the Firebug doesn’t send someone to finish the job. Your horse wouldn’t like that.”

  
“No,” agreed Donna, seeing the bay’s head watching all the activity. “Well, my name is Donna McLaren, and I ride the show circuit in the summer. My father has lots of money, and I can afford to do this for fun. But I’m good at it, so I could probably turn professional. I’m one year from graduating with a degree in anthropology, and I’m making good grades, but I’m not sure what I’ll do in that field, if anything. My mother keeps shoving boys at me that she’s vetted and pedigreed, trying to get me to marry a ‘nice boy.’ What she means is a nice family, socially speaking. Are you getting all this?”

  
“Yes,” he said quietly, still squatting motionless, the strobing police lights making vague highlights of his shape. “Go on.”

  
“Mmm, not bored yet? Daddy would like me to take over his business, I think, but it bores me to tears. He owns six car dealerships and a few other things, a kind of mini-conglomerate. All the things that other people want me to do, and not what I want to do. It sounds selfish, I suppose, since I do have options, which is more than a lot of people have, and I should be grateful for that, I know. All I feel is trapped.”

  
“What do you want?” he asked, focused on the officers by the hay barn. The police had entirely ignored Donna’s pitchfork, leaving it where it lay.

  
“No one’s ever asked me,” she admitted. “I’m not sure, really.”

  
“Do you see any weapons down there?” he asked, one glinting silver ring pointing at the investigators. “Other than your pitchfork, that is.”

  
“No, sorry. Should I?” she asked, staring intently. Donna wondered why the police were ignoring her pitchfork. Did they just assume it a normal part of the hay barn?

  
“That’s how I know that there are others of the gang still around,” he told her, sighing. “No shotgun.”

  
“What do you mean?” she said, confused. “These barn burners always carry a shotgun?”

  
“No, but when I was trailing them earlier today, they had one. I’m lucky they thought I was just a rabbit, and that they only took one shot.”

  
“They shot at you and missed?” she squeaked, hating the way she sounded, but trying to keep quiet. “Uh, forgive me, but you’re a big target. How did they mistake you for a rabbit?”

  
“I was in a ditch they didn’t know was there,” he shrugged, and winced. Her eyes were getting used to the light, and she noticed. “And they didn’t really miss, it was just almost out of range.”


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“You got shot earlier?” she said uncertainly. “You move pretty quickly for someone who’s been shot. So what they say about you is true, that you can’t be killed?”

  
“Oh, no one would have been killed by that,” he said lightly. “But I do seem to be carrying a few bits of birdshot in my back. You work with horses, don’t you? Ever do your own vet work? Think you’d mind digging them out? I can’t reach them myself, and by the time I get back home, they’ll be scarred over.”

  
“You want me to take lead out of your back?” exclaimed the girl, surprised, but still nearly whispering. “Alright, but I’ll need to get some things. My emergency kit is in the tack stall. Do you want to do it here?”

  
“Um, I kind of hoped we could use your motel room,” he said uncertainly. “A stall would be fine, except for all the police down there. I prefer to avoid attention.”

  
“A stall would not be fine,” she snapped, angry at his assumption that she would treat him in such a place. “I wouldn’t treat Tim in a stall, I’d use a wash rack. Look, I’m in room seventy-two, way in the back. You want to take my key and meet there, or wait for me here, or what?”

  
“I’ll go and wait in your room,” he said, rising easily from his leg-cramping position. “I won’t need a key, thank you.”

  
“No, of course not, O Ghost Who Walks,” she muttered as he vanished into the darkness. She turned and made her way to Tim’s stall by a route that avoided most police notice. She had to explain to a young policewoman that she had come to get her medical kit because of a friend’s minor injury. Truth, of a sort, she told herself.

  
“Alcohol, gauze, scissors, all the same for human as for a horse,” she told the uniformed woman. The officer watched her patting and muttering to Tim for a while before she went back to the motel across the road. The pub still blared loud music and was full of people, since it was a Saturday night. She passed unnoticed, went by the pool and ice machine to the last row of rooms. At her door, dark and silent, she stopped and opened it with her key. Movement made her freeze, the metal box still in her hand.

  
“Who’s there?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. She’d almost expected to find him gone, into mist and legend. She still wasn’t sure she could trust him.

  
“Your patient, Doctor McLaren,” said that rich voice, again echoing inside her. “Closing the door might be advisable, and the curtains.”

  
“Oh, right,” she said, feeling both relief and embarrassment. Why did she have to sound like such an idiot around this man, she wondered. She locked the door, stumbled to the front window and pulled the heavy drapes shut, making certain that there were no gaps. She heard the back window shutters slide shut, as well. Cautiously, she turned on the dim light of the hall closet, letting her have her first real look at a being some thought a myth.

  
Deliberately, he moved into the wan light, letting her see him. He smiled gently and took every bit of fear from her. He was tall, at least a head taller than her own five eleven height, and built like a stallion, all muscle and grace. His boots were black leather, fitting his calves well, the rest of his muscular legs encased in silken purple tights, a horseman’s thighs. He wore thicker, darker material as sort of outer trunks, fitted as smooth and tight as the rest, under a wide leather gunbelt. A silver, triangular buckle, the skull prominent on it, seemed his only decoration, but such a body needed none. A shirt of woven purple silk fit his torso from flat belly to wide shoulders and strong wrists like a second skin, almost as if painted on. A hood covered his head, concealing his hair, and a mask covered his eyes. The hood tucked under the shirt, the mask fit under the hood, she thought. His face, what showed of it, seemed kind, strong, a bit tired, perhaps, but young. Not like a man four centuries old, she told herself, a little surprised.

  
“Turn around,” she said to him, remembering why he was here. “Let me see the oh, my God.” His back was literally covered with blood. A scattering of small black dots had each spread scarlet into the silk and downward. “Bloody hell.”

  
“Is it really all that bad?” he asked, untroubled by her reaction. She had to remind herself that he was not all that inconvenienced by his injuries, and had treated them as a mere annoyance. Still, it looked very painful to her.

  
“Well, yes,” she admitted, biting her lip. He needed a real doctor, not a girl whose veterinary triumph was a stitched flap of skin on one foreleg. Still, he couldn’t go to someone else, could he? And if she didn’t do this, he would just ignore it. She supposed that if you were four hundred years old, you got used to such things. Still it must hurt some, judging by his earlier wince.

  
“There’s a light over the table in the back,” she decided. “Move the table, if you can, and I’ll use that spot.” She took the big white towels intended for pool use and spread them in the area he had cleared below the hanging lamp. She set her medical supplies on the hotel chair and went to get the rest of the towels and the hotel ice bucket full of tap water.

  
“Can you get your shirt off?” she asked doubtfully, aware of how blood tended to glue cloth to skin. “You could shower it off, perhaps.”

  
Without a word, the Phantom stripped off his jerkin over his head, ignoring the sound of flesh and blood separating. Donna didn’t see him wince this time, but cringed herself. He tossed the garment onto the relocated table, where Donna noticed that much of it was stiff from dried gore.

  
“Lay down and try not to move,” she ordered, dipping a wash cloth in warm water. “I’ll try not to hurt you too much, but I know I’m going to. Sorry in advance.”

  
“Give me a moment,” he murmured, face against the white towel. “I promise not to move if you’ll wait a little.” He was silent for a few seconds, then said more softly yet, “Go ahead.”

  
Gently, with a great deal of care at first, then more speed as he didn’t move, Donna cleaned his back of the bloodstains. Surgical cleanser covering her hands, she probed for the lead, using the forceps and hemostat she had received on her twentieth birthday from a medical uncle. With care and concentration, she removed each lead pellet, a total of sixteen.

  
After cleaning and drying each wound, she filled them with antiseptic salve, covering them with tefla pads. The four injuries on his left arm had to be bandaged with gauze when she ran out of the non-stick pads. She made certain that she had missed nothing, then wiped off the excess betadine with the sadly bedraggled wash cloth.

  
He still hadn’t moved, and though his even breathing was reassuring, his immobility was not. She let her hand rest on his right shoulder, feeling the firmness of his body even when relaxed. She bent over and kissed his cheek, part silken hood, and part slightly stubbled face. Like a fairy tale, that roused him.

  
“Done and well done, Doctor McLaren,” he said, letting her help him to his feet. She was certain he needed no help, but she wanted to feel his hand in her own. “Perhaps this is your true calling. You have a very nice bedside manner, too.”

  
“Nonsense,” she said, blushing. “It helps when the patient holds still in spite of the pain. I know Tim does that because he trusts me to make it better. How did you do that?”

  
“There was no pain,” he told her tiredly. “I used an old yoga trick and convinced my mind to go elsewhere. No mind, no pain. It does make you work for the result, though.”

  
“Do you need to eat, drink, anything?” she asked, recalling a lecture on shamanic techniques and trances. “I have some soda and a little food. I’m told that’s good for people who’ve lost blood, too.”

  
“I could eat a horse,” he admitted, grinning. “But not yours. What do you have?”

  
“You sit down and rest,” she commanded, somewhat surprised at how easily she treated him as an ordinary man, considering his identity. What if he needed to replace blood with blood, like a vampire? They were immortal, too, if they really existed. But he was real, so why not vampires? Nothing like running into a legend to challenge your worldview. “I’ll get you what there is. If it’s not enough, I’ll get something from the pub.”

  
While she fetched ice for the sodas, he managed, barely, to replace the table. He was glad she didn’t see him nearly collapse in one of the two ugly green chairs. He considered the woman with a growing affection and trust.

  
Tall and muscular, fit as only a horsewoman of her level must be, she was fair of skin and her hair longish dark blond. Her face was strong, not pretty, a face that in time would be far more than pretty. Character shone in her gray eyes, in her resolute defense of the horses against an unknown threat. She handled shocks well, he thought, shivering in reaction, and was certainly his only ally here. He wished he had brought Devil, for he would be a better defender or sentry than either he himself or the blond. Besides, she would like the big mountain wolf, he was certain.

  
As Donna returned to what the management pleased to call her cabin, hearing several heavily curtained rooms emitting the sounds of occupied couples, she felt an odd sense of pride and power. She was caring for, and protecting, a man who made a difference in the world. That meant that she was making a difference, and she wondered how to help him further.

  
Entering the room, after having first assured herself that she was unobserved, she was struck by the tired, even exhausted, impression the Phantom made, leaning on the table, his head hanging. He shook off this look by an act of will as she brought ice filled glasses to the table and poured his cola. She silently fetched more of her supplies to the Formica circle, bread, Vegemite, marmalade, candy bars, cereal and crisps. She distracted herself from his troubles by thinking with some embarrassment that he would think her to have rather poor eating habits, but concern with his comfort was more important.

  
He carefully made a sandwich and drank two colas before his ice had melted, topping it all off with a Cadbury bar, the caramel one. She had a small sandwich, too, and a soda, but her eyes hardly left him even once. She had come to her decision long before he had finished his brief, and surely inadequate, meal.

  
“I’ve got an extra toothbrush, new, that you can use, and then you’re going to bed,” Donna told him firmly. “God, my mother would be overjoyed to hear me say that. She’s just about decided that I’m a lesbian.”

  
Obediently, he rose and followed her to the bathroom, where she handed him a green toothbrush and closed the door on him. She could hear the sounds of water and wondered if he was just indulging her about the toothbrush. But she found it impossible to sleep well when she hadn’t brushed her teeth before bed. Why should she deny her guest the same comforts?

  
“Why does she think so?” he mumbled through both the toothpaste and the door.

  
“Because I’m not married yet, and I never told her about my boyfriends. I’ll admit there have been some tolerable boys in the scads she’s thrown at me, but if I marry, it won’t be because a man is just tolerable.” She sighed, feeling a bit sorry for herself again, since he couldn’t see her.

  
“I’d like to marry some day, just not for her reasons. I want a man who doesn’t expect me to stay at home and cook, if he travels, or turn out babies like a broodmare and like it. I’d like to be more partner than most men seem willing to have.”

  
“Sounds reasonable to me,” he said, opening the door, his cat-silent movements catching her by surprise. “Don’t let anyone force you to accept less, Donna. You deserve better than second choice anything.”

  
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” she said, flattered, his words shattering her self-pity. “I’ll be sure to tell Mummy that I have that on excellent authority. Now, go to bed. It’s obvious that you need more rest than you’ve had lately.”

  
Smiling at her tone, he obeyed, laying face down on the wide bed where she had turned down the sheets. She tugged off his boots, standing them under the nightstand, noting that they needed a good polishing. She took off his belt, too, to his mild protest, and handed him one of the heavy black automatics to put under his pillow, satisfying him. The removal of his black leathers didn’t make him one bit less impressive, she realized, as the light fell across his muscled arms and back, bandages and all.

  
She shook off her momentary surge of desire and spread the light blanket over him, doubled to keep him warm, and then turned down the lights. By the time she had finished her own toilet, he was still and silent, his uncontrolled shivering stopped. She hoped that he slept as she drew the comforter over him and slid into her own side of the double bed. Well, she was finally sleeping with a man, she thought to herself with a smile.

  
Neither designation, she decided as she lay beside him, came near the truth. A man he certainly was, more man than any she had ever known, like a fabled hero of Greek myth come to life, but vulnerable like any mortal, just tougher. He was gentle, polite, but also brave and decisive, with an almost female tolerance of pain. Donna respected that. In spite of the fact that she had yet to see his face, she was growing very attached to him, dreading his eventual, inevitable disappearance. After all, legend had it that to see him unmasked was to die, and that he would vanish like a shadow after he had accomplished his task.

  
As to the sleeping part, and sleeping he certainly must be by now, that was all it was likely to be. She had never precisely slept with a man, as she had somehow always avoided overnight stays in her college experiments. Semantics, true, but somehow important, if only to her. He would be a wonderful sexual partner, she was certain, but chances of finding that out were almost precisely nil. He was probably married, after all, being four hundred years old, if he was interested in that sort of thing at all. Maybe he used yoga on that urge, as well, she thought sadly. Finally I find a man I could fall in love with, she mourned to herself, and he’s as unattainable as the Pope. Although, on the positive side, he didn't seem to be a vampire.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not clear on how to decide chapter lengths, obviously. Tea and first class at the show.

Chapter 3  
In her sleep that night, Donna moved hardly at all, unusual for her. Deep in her unconscious mind was the thought that to do so would cause him pain, and she had no intention of doing that, even though she dreamed of him in her arms. She awoke before dawn, from an erotic dream that was fairly burned into her mind, and slid quietly out of the bed. She took his shirt off of the shower curtain rod, where she had hung it the night before, and examined it with a critical eye.

  
The holes in the back were beyond her ability to fix, but the blood had washed out without a trace. The stuff was finely woven, but odd, not exactly silk, with a faint pattern to it that only showed in certain lights. She wondered, as she folded it up, if these were some sort of charm or spell, or just decoration. Certainly, if spells, they had not been effective against lead. She left the folded tunic on top of his gunbelt, next to his boots, unaware of his mask-hidden eyes on her in the dimness.

  
She showered briefly, then dressed, her best breeches and turtleneck, braided her hair and emerged contemplating breakfast. He was sitting up on the edge of the bed, the dim light showing her his perfectly defined torso and gentle smile. Somehow, she thought that smile rather seldom used, and treasured the idea.

  
“You don’t have to get up, yet, O Ghost Who Walks,” she told him, rummaging in her ice chest for milk. “Tim and I have an eight o’clock class, or I wouldn’t be up, either. You’ve had a few rough days, or nights, from the look of you, take a few more hours of sleep while you can.”

  
“I’m fine,” he told her, rising smoothly to his feet, and her body seconded that opinion emphatically. “I’d like to watch you ride, if you don’t mind, Donna. And watch your back for arsonists, as well. Do you know whose horses were next to the hay barn?”

  
“Uh, Linkmann’s and Harry Jackson’s,” she said, pouring milk on her cereal. “But that fire would probably have set the rest ablaze, as well. Why?”

  
“Because the Firebug Gang doesn’t work for free,” he told her pulling on his shirt and boots. There was a knife sheathed in the left one, as she had noted the night before. “Someone hires them. My guess was either someone with lots of debts and heavily insured horses, or the owners of the show grounds. I’ve seen the sign at the gate, though. This is a local fairground, community owned and run. That makes it unlikely to be the landowner.”

  
“Uh, a horseperson paid someone to set a barnfire?” she stared at him as he tried the fit of his shirt over the bandages, sickened by his words. Anyone else would have merited her scorn at such an accusation, but she had no choice but to believe this man. “To kill horses, to kill Tim?”

  
“I’m sure he’s not the target,” he assured her, buckling on his gunbelt, and holstering the gun she had allowed him the night before. Though she might have thought that he slept, he had actually been simply in a light, restful trance most of the night, aware of any movement or sound. “But some people don’t think quite right when they get desperate. Or they don’t think of anyone else as quite real, only themselves as being important. No matter what you do, those people never really seem to realize that they’ve done anything wrong.”

  
“What kind of follow-up do you expect?” she asked, her cereal now unappealing. She pushed away the half-eaten bowl. “Do you think they’ll try in the daylight?”

  
“No, always at night,” he told her, standing like a statue of some warrior god, elemental power in his dark shape. “May I check your closet?”

  
“I guess so,” she answered, still having horrible visions of horses trapped in fire and smoke. “What are you looking for?”

  
“A disguise,” he told her, flipping through her hanging clothes, a rather sparse collection. “I’m not going to get to watch your class in this outfit without attracting a lot of attention. A hazard of the job, like being shot at.”

  
“Wait,” she said, thinking quickly. “I’ll be right back.”

  
She ran out the door to the car park, and rummaged through the untidy pile in the back of her Range Rover, affectionately called ‘Bernie’ after his license plates. Soon she was back, her arms full of khaki-brown cloth. She held it up, an enormous raincoat, a sheepherder’s gear, with a high collar and a wide brimmed hat. You didn't throw out Akubras.

  
“It got in with my things two shows back, and I haven’t found out who it belongs to, yet. Will it do?” She felt the warmth of his smile as if he had held her close on a cold day, and he slid into the coat as she held it for him. He put on the hat and turned to look at her. In the dim light, it was hard to see any part of his face, and his distinctive form was now anonymous and bulky.

  
”I guess it will have to do,” he said thoughtfully. “But I rather like it. How does it look?”

  
“I’d stay away from you on a dock or street corner,” Donna admitted, amazed at the transformation. “But I don’t think I’d even notice you around a show, especially early, or on an overcast day."

  
“Good, that’s the way I need to look,” he said with satisfaction. “Finish your breakfast, you’ve got a show to go to. And a new groom to show the ropes to.”

  
“I don’t need a groom,” she said indignantly. “I do all the work myself. After all, I only have one horse. Besides, you shouldn’t be too hard on your back. Unless you healed up overnight.”

  
“I’m fine, Lady Donna,” he teased. “I don’t know the players in this game, and I’m relying on you to tell me about them. Will people think badly of you if you take on a man and then spend a lot of time talking to him?”

  
“Well, yes, they’ll probably think I’m sleeping with you,” she admitted. Then she smiled wickedly at him. “Of course, we did sleep together, sort of. I can’t say it will do my image much harm, as I’m known as the Ice Maiden on the circuit. Might get you a little more attention than you want. Alright, you’re hired. If someone asks, do I give them a name in particular, or make one up, or what?”

  
“Tell them my name is Kit Walker,” he said, pushing back the hat so that she could see his smile. “It’s as much my real name as any. Should I be respectful underling or familiar friend?”

  
“Just be you,” she advised, putting on her wind cheater. She hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door on their way out. “Whoever that may be. But if you use your back, I’ll fire you.”

  
She heard him chuckle behind her, a safe, comforting presence, like her horse. She liked the sound, the almost palpable aura of protection he seemed to give off, as some men did with aftershave.

  
“There’s an old jungle saying, ‘the Phantom is many men.’” He told her, his voice for her ears alone in the early morning gloom. “I’ll just have to pick one.”

  
“Just don’t pick the one with holes in him,” she told him with mock severity. “Anyone who works for me, works hard. Any slacking off will be paid for tonight.”

  
“Then I shall be certain to do so as often as possible, Lady Donna,” he murmured as they crossed the street to the show grounds. Many others were doing the same, and Donna and her companion garnered a few second looks. The masked giant decided that the day’s gossip would not all be about the arsonists.

  
Tim greeted them warmly, his whuffle of welcome for his rider as much as his breakfast. The gelding was a big bay, a star on his forehead and a snip on his nose, quite handsome and solid. He eyed the man with his rider as he ate, as if to judge his worthiness to be part of his world. He often nudged Donna’s sweater as she brushed him, as if to make certain that she was aware of the Phantom. Donna kept up a murmur of conversation with the horse, too quiet even for the Phantom to overhear. When the horse had finished his grain, he stretched out his nose to the big man’s offered hand. After several deep sniffs, the bay licked the wide, callused palm, and again nudged his owner, now bent over doing his hooves.

  
“A polite and pointed greeting,” the mysterious man said, the humor in his voice pleasing Donna greatly. “I am accepted for the moment, but only because you say so.”

  
“I’ve had him since he was three,” she said, head down in the straw, looking like an unattended pair of well-filled breeches. “He considers me his, and has been jealous of others, human and equine, more than once. But he’s smart, a good judge of character, and, though I say it myself, very well trained.”

  
“What does he do?” asked the Phantom, cautiously laying a hand on the silken neck. The gelding looked at him with speculation in his wise eyes and began to search him for carrots.

  
“Hunters, jumpers today,” Donna told him, still working. “Three day eventing, dressage, some vaulting, tricks. He understands a lot of English, too. Watch. Tim, heel.”

  
She turned and walked out into the barn aisle, the big horse following like a dog. Set up to allow entry from both aisle or outer sides of stalls, the center pathway of the big structure was lit with brighter lights now, and covered to allow a place out of any rain. In spite of distractions ranging from bales of hay to other horses, Tim stayed where he was told with only a word from his human. Playing his part, the man in the overcoat brushed the already spotless coat, while watching others up and down the barn.

  
Donna brought out her numnuh, or pad, and her saddle, which he carefully set just so on the broad back, then a girth and bridle, which he also applied. Horse and rider watched him closely, as if to evaluate his expertise, he thought with some humor. But he had handled horses since childhood, and Tim was both well behaved and simply dressed. While he worked, Donna pointed out various people and their horses, her voice a low murmur, indistinct to anyone passing by. 

  
Donna now wore her show gear, cotton ratcatcher shirt, black wool jacket, net-backed gloves, and a velvet-covered hardhat. Her hair was confined with a net, and she wore a simple gold horsehead pin at her throat. The tall man noted that she wore no spurs, carried no whip, and that Tim wore only the mildest of snaffle bits.

  
With studied nonchalance, all three walked out of the barn, Donna continuing her low-voiced monologue on everyone they passed. They, like all the others, went past the shed where the police still lurked, pointedly craning their heads to see what had happened. The new groom carried a bucket of brushes and a rag, and when Donna finally mounted Tim near the warm-up area, he gave her boots a wiping down, just as other grooms were doing. She smiled down at him and he felt an odd surge of emotion as she moved off to the flat ring, where several horses already worked.

  
She moved with her horse, as if they were a single creature, a flowing effect rather than the forcing that others were having to do. Tim tucked his head and eased into his gaits, without Donna seeming to move at all. Her tall body, almost awkward on the ground, became the inevitable extension of Tim’s own grace and power. The masked giant became aware that she was showing off for him, performing sidepasses, shoulder-ins and paiffs that no one else seemed to be concerned with.

  
Tim went along with this, strutting with presence and power, his responses quick and light. By the time the class was called, the big bay gelding had little damp patches of sweat between his legs, and foam around his lips. His ears were constantly in motion, flicking back at his rider’s slightest word or movement, eager to respond to her commands.

  
“You ride like a centaur, Donna,” he told her as he wiped first her boots, then Tim’s mouth. “I’ve never seen better.”

  
“Thank you,” she said, blushing, pleased that he had noticed their efforts. “Tim and I understand each other very well. You might pick up some information over there with the other grooms, by the gate."

  
He nodded and ambled off to the seats reserved for such people, copying the loose-limbed, lazy walk most used. Not a few men had as much concealment on as he did, since it was a bit nippy for summer, and looked a little threatening. The South Island of New Zealand, he reminded himself, was not tropical, roughly on a par with Northern Europe as to climate.

  
“You work for Donna McLaren?” asked a man in a maroon sweater and gray slouch hat. “Never saw you before. How much does she pay?”

  
“She doesn’t pay me,” he told the fellow, taking a seat next to him. “Doesn’t need me, either.”

  
“Friends, then?” asked the smaller man, hands in his pockets to keep them warm. Placing the galvanized bucket beneath his seat, the disguised Phantom adopted the same pose, watching without seeming to move, the man beside him as well as the ring.

  
“Yes,” he said briefly, suddenly aware of a great, awakening idea. He wanted to be able to say that he and the blond, now riding in the ring with other contestants, were more than friends. He’d never wanted to say that about any other woman, in all his years. How strange, he thought, his seatmate taking his reticence for more than it was.

  
“Ah, visitin’ durin’ the hols, eh? American, what?” the much smaller man nodded with some understanding. “No wonder she hain’t never been paired up with any o’ these show blokes. Had a better man waitin’ for her back at school, eh?”

  
“Mmm,” muttered the Phantom, noncommittally. “Came to see her ride, since I was in the area.”

  
“Well, no bad luck t’yer lady, chum,” said the talkative little man, scratching at his stubbly chin, “but I hope she don’t win the Grand Prix today. Only way I’ll get paid this week’s if my boss, Harry Jackson, takes the class. That way, he can’t say he’s got no money when I asks.”

  
“He owes you money?” asked the giant, seeing Donna and her bay, in perfect harmony, executing all the demands of the judges. “I thought everyone who did this had money.”

  
“Oh, he owes everyone, does Harry,” the little man said, also watching the class. “That’s how to tell the real class from the pretenders in this game, my American tyro. The true class pays its bills and lives within its means. Trash like my boss put on airs and live one step ahead of debtors prison. But many here in this very class owe money. Hey, Jake! Don’t Miss High an’ Mighty Linkmann owe you money, still?”

  
“Ayer, she does,” growled a man above them, as muffled by cloth as was the Phantom. “Though she’d the look of an heiress at the pub last night. Lives high, she does.”

  
“How much does she owe you?” asked the Phantom curiously, as Donna was awarded first place and a red ribbon. Tim stood statue still as the bright rosette was fixed to his bridle, then tossed his head to show off the shiny colors.

  
“Two weeks,” sighed the younger-sounding Jake. “And Lady Patricia Linkmann’ll never beat McLaren over the course, unless that bay o’ hers drops dead. Foxbrier and Danny Boy aren’t in his class.”

  
“Aye, nor Jackson’s Madagascar Girl,” agreed the first man, a bit resignedly.

  
“Well, to keep you both from ill-wishing my boss,” said the Phantom, standing as the gates opened to let out the losers, “I can let you have a few greenbacks. For good luck, say.”

  
“Now, you can’t do that,” protested the older man, his eyes wide with surprise. “Tain’t your fault we work for a couple o’ deadbeats.”

  
“But I’m a rich American who doesn’t want bad karma for his girlfriend, or her horse,” the tall man told them with a smile. “I insist. Can’t ever have enough good karma, or good luck.”

  
“Well, seein’ that it’s only American money,” the older man conceded, taking the offered bill. “Huh, rich American is right. I’ll be thinkin’ mighty good thoughts at yer gal, Yank. An’ maybe findin’ another boss. Yep, looks like a nice day, mate.”

  
“Hey, Riley,” asked the younger, as the Phantom went to wait at the gate while Donna made her brief victory lap. “How much is a hundred dollars American in real money?”

  
Hardly any of the grandstand was filled this early, most observers were relatives or parents of contestants. Those in the warm-up ring were now much younger, many on ponies.

  
“Well done, Donna,” said the Ghost Who Walks. “Do you ride in the next class?”

  
“No, I have a break for about two hours,” she said, dismounting easily at a polite distance from the arena. “Younger folk for a bit, you see. Local Pony Clubbers, that sort.”

  
“What do we do until then?” he asked, running up the stirrup on the left as she did on the right. Tim checked hopefully on the bucket he still carried.

  
“You haven’t had anything to eat, yet,” she said thoughtfully, taking Tim’s reins. “Let’s go find you breakfast. Come on, Tim, your breakfast first, there’s a good boy.”

  
“All that preparation then go back and wait?” he said mildly, as they walked back through the grounds. “Seems silly.”

  
“They just want to make sure the big names are paying attention,” laughed Donna. “Some of that class were hungover a bit, did you see? Can’t say I’m too sorry to see Patty Linkmann looking so grim. And Brian Simmons looked half-dead, I thought. A wonder he didn’t fall off of Gregory, the fool. What possesses people to do such things?”

  
“No self control,” guessed the man on the other side of the gelding’s head. “I found out that both the people at the end of your barn are behind paying their grooms. Is that unusual?”

  
“I couldn’t say,” Donna admitted, a little embarrassed to have to tell him so. “I never got paid when I groomed for other people, but they were friends, and it wasn’t expected. Fancy Patty behind on her bills. I wonder if Dennis Fletcher is behind as well? He wasn’t even in the class, you know. Maybe he finally drank himself to death.”

  
“Don’t like him?” guessed the Phantom as they took Tim’s tack off and closed his stall door. The hay net had his morning feed in it, so the horse made no objections as they left.

  
“He’s a very rude person,” Donna said firmly. “Although much of that may be because he’s usually sloshed. He’s always trying to get women to go to bed with him, asking in public, yet. I daresay that’s as far as he’d get, too, pass out before anything happened, like as not.”

  
“He does sound as if he has a serious lack of judgement,” commented the big man, wondering if this Fletcher had ever made such remarks to Donna. He found that the idea irritated him a good deal more than it should have, especially as he had no real idea of the hypothetical circumstances, nor had he even seen the man.

  
“Oh, the canteen is looking fairly empty,” remarked Donna, pleased. “How about a couple of rolls and some tea? Or do you prefer orange juice or milk?”

  
“Tea and rolls will be fine,” he said, wishing he had some local currency on him. It didn’t feel right to let the blond buy, but it was practical, so he went along with her plan. She probably assumed that he had no money with him, he told himself.

  
“Sit here and hold our places, then,” she commanded him, pointing at a folding table and two metal chairs. “I’ll bring the provisions.”

  
Obediently, the big man settled to the metal chair between the table and a large hydrangea. He looked over the crowd and the area with an attention none would have suspected. Most of the people in the roped-off cantina area, actually a large tent, wore riding apparel, and those who didn’t seemed either spectators or grooms. The grooms all seemed to be in a hurry, none staying in the table area. The few spectators, probably parents of younger riders, seemed more interested in caffeine than food, probably having been up long before dawn. The rest, about ten or so, looked to be having either a leisurely morning break, or trying to come back to life. Some had obviously been out late the night before, and now perhaps regretted it.

  
Donna returned to take the chair he needlessly held for her, after setting down the tray she had carried. On the tray were a paper carton of milk, a jar of strawberry preserves, a pot of tea and all the cutlery and porcelain required, as well as four sweet rolls and a pile of toast. Without a word, she took a piece of toast and shoved the rest toward him. She buttered her toast and glanced around briefly.

  
“Donna, are you going to eat all this?” he asked in surprise, his belly growling at the scent of food.

  
”No, but you are,” she told him, waving her butter knife at the continental breakfast she had brought. “Blood loss, shock, remember? Get to it, Kit. Want the other grooms to think I starve you as well as beat you?”

  
“Hmm. I am hungry,” he admitted, picking up a roll in his fingers. “Tell me about these people, if you can.”

  
“Well, that, over there by the rose bush, is the aforementioned Dennis Fletcher, know to his cronies as ‘Fetch’er Fletcher,’ of all things. Ham-handed hack, he is. All his horses hard-mouthed and ill-tempered because of it. Daresay he’s that way in bed, too.” Donna didn’t know that she had startled the man beside her with her evaluation.

  
“Over there is Harry Jackson, a suspect, the one with the woman, who is Lady, hah! Patricia Linkmann. Who does she think she’s fooling with those sunglasses? Harry looks very chipper, for him. Must have passed out early last night.”

  
“Donna, you have a sharp tongue when you let it out,” he observed with mild amusement. “How about that fellow over there? At the table with the flowers on it?”

  
“James Kildare, a horseman of the old school, and a gentleman,” Donna avowed, taking one of the rolls. “If I could ride as well as he could at my age, I’d be polishing an Olympic medal right now. Can’t be him, any more than it was me.”

  
The big man listened closely as the blond detailed out the people she knew, more than once startled by her frank evaluations. She had apparently observed these folk for years, part of their world, yet not one of them. She mentioned marriages, bed habits, eating preferences, drug or alcohol problems and manners without regard to the social taboos of her larger society. Her most telling judgements were of a rider’s way with his or her horses, not their social habits. This one might drink too much, but had a kind way with her horses, and was therefore on Donna’s version of the side of the angels. That one might live like a saint, but she abused her horses, thus earning Donna’s disgust and deeper suspicions.

  
“If someone abuses a helpless animal,” she reasoned, as her guest finished the last crumb, “they’ll likely abuse others. I don’t care what others do in bed or out, as long as they treat their horses properly. Have you ever seen a really good person be cruel to an animal?”

  
“Not really,” he admitted. “Uh, I might mention, before you talk to anyone else, that I’m now your rich American boyfriend from college, visiting on holiday. I didn’t plan it that way, it just happened during your first class.”

  
“Fine,” she said, picking up their remains. “What did you study? In case anyone asks.”

  
“History,” he said promptly, startled when she burst out laughing, almost dropping the cup she had been in the act of drinking from.

  
“Very amusing, I’m sure,” said an oily, slightly slurred voice behind her. “Tell me, Donna, baby, what’s this chappie got that I haven’t got, eh?”

  
“The list, Dennis, starts with brains and manners,” said Donna icily, setting down the cup and standing up. She faced the man who had spoken and added, “and goes on forever. And I haven’t even seen him ride.”

  
“Been ridden, though, haven’t you?” leered the man, leaning offensively close to the blond. She held herself straight and still, knowing that they were making a scene. Just what the Phantom didn’t need.

  
“That’s enough,” came the rage-cold voice of the man behind her. Cutting through every other noise in the cantina, silence followed it, and not a few people shivered at its menace. Dennis Fletcher was just a little too drunk to feel that voice’s power, however, even when it came again. “Apologize. Now.”

  
“Or what?” asked the smaller man, only slightly wider than Donna’s own body. He reached out to pat her chest familiarly. “You won’t share?”

  
The inarticulate growl the Phantom uttered as he came to his feet was covered first by the sounds of outraged watchers, then by Dennis Fletcher himself. Donna, having endured enough, brought up a hard-muscled thigh, driving her knee into the sot’s crotch so hard that he rose off of his own feet. When he came back down, he collapsed at the blonde’s feet, mewling in agony, clutching himself helplessly. Donna looked down at him and toed him with her left boot, sorely tempted to finish him, but having a vague notion that her ‘boyfriend’ would not approve.

  
“Apology accepted,” she said sweetly, picking up the tray to a scattering of applause. “Come on, Kit, Tim’s waiting.”

  
“A moment,” he rumbled, still angry, yet pleased at her actions. “I’ll remove the garbage. Meet you at the barn?”

  
“Don’t be late,” she warned, watching wide-eyed as he picked up the sobbing man by his belt one-handed and strolled out into the cluster of buildings behind the office. She soon was in Tim’s stall, waiting, trying to decide who had hired the arsonists as she saddled the bay. Moments later, Tim nosed her and she saw her anonymous friend, still muffled, his visible face grim, enter the stall.

  
“Fletcher still alive?” she asked, buckling the throatlatch. “Not that a worm like that matters.”

  
“Lucky for him,” growled the Phantom, taking off his hat. Standing behind the door as he was, no one but she could see his hooded face. “I told him that if I saw him again I’d introduce him to an old American custom, as practiced by the Apaches. It involves ants, honey and gelding knives.”

  
“Oh, my,” giggled Donna, having visions of the conversation. “If he’s sober enough to remember it, he’ll probably run from me next time he sees me, let alone you.”

  
“Are you alright?” he asked, pleased and relieved to hear her laughter. “He didn’t hurt you?”

  
“You mean his vicious attack on my knee with his crotch?” she laughed, patting the gelding’s neck. She felt strange at his concern, almost worry, for her, an altogether pleasant feeling. She wouldn’t have reacted that way if he’d tried to cop a feel, she thought a bit resentfully, hoping he didn’t take this one reaction as her inevitable response. His face was relaxing now, no longer that stony look of sudden death waiting to be unleashed, grim and fierce. “Quite alright, Mr. Kit Walker, Phantom and Ghost Who Walks.”

  
“Please, just keep calling me Kit, Donna,” he asked humbly. It was more than just an act, now, he found, a little surprised at himself. He cared far more than he should, he told himself. “I think Dennis Fletcher is off of our list of suspects. He tried to give me money to let him go. Lots. In cash. I don’t know how well New Zealand currency digests. Do you?”

  
Donna found this hysterical, laughing so hard that she had to hang on to Tim’s neck to stand up. By the time she could stand on her own again, the Phantom, too, was again smiling at her.

  
“Oh, give me a leg up, will you, Kit?” she gasped, just outside the barn. “I’m going to miss my call. The jumping arena, right?”

  
“Yes, Miss Donna,” he said, careful not to throw her too high. “I’ll be there. Good luck.”

  
He ambled along behind her, alert, observant, his mind on both the problem and this latest complication to his already convoluted life. Certainly either Patricia Linkmann or Harry Jackson were responsible for the Firebugs, but that was no problem compared to the girl. Woman, he corrected himself, seeing again the concern and caring for him in her eyes. That made him feel good inside, a kind of warm glow in the pit of his stomach, like a nice, hot meal on a cold, drizzly day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still struggling with chapter length. Donna gets kissed and likes it.

The same arena as before was now set up with low jumps, most of unpainted wood and flowers, with some potted hedges. Donna had not missed her turn, and was in the warm-up arena with Tim, still. He saw that the bay thoroughbred was as smooth on his jumps as his flatwork, not at all challenged by the low fences. For the rest of that morning until noon, Donna and Tim did hunter courses, which the neighborly Riley informed him were slower and more controlled than the afternoon jumper classes would be.

  
“Hear you and the McLaren had a disagreement with that oaf, Fletcher,” another groom said companionably, this one a dark-haired girl in an oversized coat like his own. “Nice job. Wish I could have seen it. Mostly, he just gets his face slapped. No one messes around with Donna McLaren, though, not twice. She a good boss?”

  
“So far,” he said, as Patricia Linkmann’s gray hunter Foxbrier hopped a fence badly, only to be punished by yanking hands on his mouth. Patricia Linkmann had a scowl on her pretty, made-up face as she exited the arena. Asking his new pal Riley to keep an eye on Donna’s bucket, he followed her. Jake took the gray away, still wild-eyed in fear and pain, while the growling woman stalked off to the back of the now-filling grandstands.

  
In spite of his huge size, the Phantom blended into the crowd with a fine sense of timing, stalking the woman as easily as if she had been a deer in the jungle. Trailing her unseen, unnoted in a crowd of people who often wore what he did, he saw her meet with a familiar-looking man. They walked off to a small set of benches set in a hedged quadrangle, sitting where they could see around them, but with their backs to the thick bushes. The Phantom smiled to himself and walked briskly past them. He was back just as Donna exited the arena with yet another red ribbon on her bridle.

  
“Lunch break,” she told him, patting her horse. Looking down at his solid form, retrieved bucket in one big hand, she felt a sense of ease she had never experienced before, even with lovers. And, she admitted to herself, a sense of dread, not from any danger, but of his eventual, inevitable departure. “We’ll have about three or four hours before the jumper classes. Time to eat, nap, play tourist, whatever you like.”

  
“Feed Tim?” he asked, walking easily along beside her, not pushed by the gelding’s long walk. “I know who our mystery employer is, now. The gang is going to try again tonight. Let’s put Tim away, and I’ll tell you what I found out.”

  
Donna was flattered. He had no need to tell her such things, after all, being perfectly capable of taking care of them by himself. True, she had given him much information, but anyone could have done that, including the grooms he had been hanging on the rail with. Such courtesy was surely not the norm with him, she thought, having the idea that he usually appeared and vanished like smoke. Else he would not be thought more myth than man, she assumed.

  
Nothing was said as they took care of the bay gelding. They moved with almost practiced speed, this close to the enemy, and soon, his hay and water ready, they left the gelding to his rest. A string of red rosettes and two blues decorated his stall door, the day’s victories. Still companionably silent, they walked off the grounds toward the motel, as many others were doing, looking very much the pair.

  
“You have any desire to eat yet?” she asked him, a little concerned over his silence. “We can get some meat pies and sodas at the pub.”

  
“You won’t want to eat when you hear what I’ve found out,” he told her grimly. No one was near them, the pool area deserted, the gloomy day drawing no swimmers. Yet water carried sound, so he took her elbow and drew her onward to her room. She followed him trustingly, knowing that he was sadly unlikely to be taking her into the room for any normal motel activity. She let herself fantasize briefly of a noontime tryst with such results that she dared not do so again. He’d never so much as kissed her, she thought guiltily. Where did she get such brass as to think he would ever be interested in her?

  
Inside the room, the closed drapes and windows giving her another brief flash of desire, dashed as he pace back and forth like a tiger, hat and coat tossed angrily on the bed. His masked face was expressionless, but every line of his stalking body proclaimed a tension, almost a readiness to act. She found him quite nice to watch, and settled into one of the chairs by the window. The holes in his shirt were not obvious unless you were looking, she found, pleased.

  
“Patricia Linkmann met with one of the gang a little while ago,” he told her, considering how to get the woman as well as the gang. “She’s paid them for a fire, and now she’s demanding results. The man she met with promised to burn the place down tonight. The problem is how to get her while not alerting them, and still get them. Hopefully without any actual burning, and without involving you.”

  
“Or you,” she said quietly, thinking. “How many of them, do you think?”

  
“About six, that I know of,” he told her, seeing a sly grin come over her face. “Why?”

  
“The police are still investigating the fire that almost happened last night, yes? Let’s call in an anonymous tip on Patty and get her picked up. Just the suspicion of involvement will make her a target of scrutiny, both by insurance investigators and police. They’ll hold her overnight, probably, if we call in a few hours, and that’ll keep her gone. Then, tonight, we catch the rest. Between us, we can handle six arsonists, right?”

  
“You are devious,” he said in admiration, unused to thinking of police as reliable tools. “Keep her off her poor horses, too. But you aren’t going to be catching any of the Firebug Gang, Donna. I’ll do that. I can’t let you risk your life with such killers. They’re not like that coward Fletcher, you know, they’re rough and vicious, and all too likely to hurt you. You call the police in, or stand guard on the horses, but no more.”

  
“I think that you underestimate me, O Ghost Who Walks,” she said, both irritated at his orders and pleased that he cared. “But you have more experience than I do in these things, I’m sure. Is the man Patty talked to someone you’ve noticed around the show today? Is he likely to notice if she’s gone?”

  
“I’ve some idea what they look like,” he mused, his body momentarily still, braced as if for battle as he thought. “I don’t think they’ve been there today. Less chance of being caught if they aren’t seen during the day, probably. I think, if we can get it done quietly, they’ll continue with their plan. You might want to move Tim, just in case.”

  
“That will alert Patty and a lot of other people,” Donna regretted, thinking hard about that idea. “Tim can stay there, after all, you’ll stop them before they get a fire going, right?”

  
“I’ll try,” he told her, wondering at his almost-fear for the horse. “But this is a pretty vague plan, and even detailed plans often come to grief. You know what to do in a fire, don’t you?”

  
“Keep doors closed,” recited Donna, having taken a Red Cross safety course several years before. “Stay low to the floor, use a damp cloth to breathe through. Keep your bearings and your head. You want to review my CPR?”

  
“I beg your pardon?” he said, not understanding her use of the acronym at first. He was happy to know that she had some idea of what to do in fires, wiping out his nightmare of her in a circle of flames.

  
“My cardiopulmonary resuscitation,” she said, laughing. “You know, mouth-to-mouth, for drowning, smoke inhalation, heart attacks, heavy dates.”

  
“Oh,” he said, wondering about that last one. Was she suggesting something? “I’ll take your word for it. Uh, it seems we have a few hours to kill. What should we do? Actually, what do you normally do?”

  
“Usually, I take a nap,” she admitted. “Or go shopping, or read a book. If we stay in here, people will assume we’re in bed together, you know. Maybe at the right time I can pretend to have a fight with you and go call the police from the pub. Then we can kiss and make up in the barn and see if Patty shows up for the class.”

  
“Devious,” he said again, with approval in his tone, making Donna feel very warm inside. He sat on the floor in the classic yoga style, his eyes on the tall woman lounging by the window. “What will we ‘fight’ about?”

  
“Uh, your performance in bed? No, hmm, you want to get married and I don’t? No, let’s see, the Viet Nam War? No, well, I’ll think about it. Don’t worry, it won’t be too embarrassing, I hope.”

  
“Then I’ll talk to you in a few hours,” he told her, his body relaxing into the meditation posture he had adopted. “I’m going to rest for a little while.”

  
“Lay down on the bed and take a nap, then,” she told him, wondering what he would be like, kissing and making up. “I promise not to take advantage of your virtue. Not that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind a few times.”

  
“You won’t be using it?” he asked, both disappointed and flattered at her words. “I thought you meant to take a nap yourself.”

  
“No, you need it more than I,” she told him firmly. “I’ll stay awake and read. On guard against any violent hotel maids, or whatever.”

  
“Very well,” he conceded, rising easily to his feet. Her heart gave a little pang at his erect body, hard-muscled and graceful. She bit her lip as he stretched full length on the made up bed, reminding her of a lazy black panther she had once seen in a zoo. Would he be rough or gentle in bed, she wondered, her gaze resting on his rounded, tight ass and muscled thighs. Gentle, she thought, until he forgot his strength in passion. She spent almost three hours watching him sleep, fantasizing about him, speculating on why an immortal legend would care if she lived or died. It was arousing, to say the least. She knew one thing, as she prepared to wake him, that she didn’t ever want to really argue with this man.

  
“Come on, lover, time to get up and put on a show,” she said softly, stroking his cheek with her hand. Strangely, it was smooth, and she wondered when he had shaved. His hand came up with cobra speed, but closed gently on her wrist. She let him hold her, unresisting, as he sat up, fluid in every movement, in spite of what must be a sore back. She wished he would hold the rest of her that way, gentle, firm, warm.

  
“And what do we ‘fight’ about, Donna,” he asked mildly, not a trace of sleep in voice or manner. Donna supposed that after four hundred years you learned to wake up quickly. Or maybe he hadn’t slept, either.

  
“Nothing,” she said, pleased with herself. “No shouting, no yelling, just cold looks and cold shoulders, slammed doors, that kind of thing. Less attention, same result. And we don’t have to lie about anything, so we can’t get our stories crossed. Not that lovers don’t usually have entirely different sides to their fights, but, uh, I didn’t want to yell at you, or anything. Sound good?”

  
“Very good,” he said, relieved. He had slept very little, and had not been looking forward to such a display, even a false one. His mind had continually turned to ways of keeping this courageous woman out of harm’s way. He truly doubted that she knew what she was getting into, in spite of his warnings. “So how do you want to start?”

  
“I’ll slam on out of here with murder in my eye, go into the pub and make the call,” she told him, eyes bright with excitement. “I’ll get us some meat pies and sodas, then head for the barn, by which time I’ll be sorry about our argument. You leave here after me, and go to the barn, saddle Tim and keep an eye out, because you were right, see? I’ll come in by the cantina, to see how things are going, and meet you. We close the stall door, do the make up scene, then I go out and win the Grand Prix class, hopefully, without Lady Patty in sight.”

  
“Done,” he said, putting on his coat and hat, a smile on the visible part of his face. Donna closed her eyes, gathered her thoughts and, with her jacket on, stalked out of the room without a backward glance. The door slammed shut very effectively, and he saw her angry-looking progress through the curtains.

  
Had he not known better, he would have thought the tall blond looking for another like the hapless Dennis Fletcher. Her acting skills, or at least, body language, told any who saw her that she was in a murderous mood. Having been well observed earlier at the show, he doubted that anyone would cross her. He waited until she was out of sight, then played his part, that of the wronged but reasonable boyfriend.

  
Tim greeted him with some familiarity, a friendly nose thrust under the concealing hat brim, hot, sweet hay scent to his breath. The man spoke to the gelding and patted him, putting the brush bucket outside the stall and staying inside with the horse. A better place to observe the Linkmann barn than in the aisle, he decided. Also, he wasn’t certain that the big bay would obey him as he did Donna. As he saddled the horse, after a thorough grooming, he saw Donna’s plan at work.

  
The would-be insurance bilker was ready to mount her horse, held by the unpaid Jake, when a policeman arrived. He very politely took her, protesting weakly, out of the barn, noticed by few. Jake, left to his own devices, waited for a while, then began to undress the chestnut Danny Boy. That was when Donna arrived, a paper bag in one hand.

  
“Oh, Kit,” she said loudly, for the benefit of the several ears in the area. “I’m sorry. I was wrong. You were right. Forgive me, darling.”

  
“Of course, Donna,” he said, as she entered the stall, closing both halves of the Dutch door behind her. She handed him the bag and patted the curious Tim, then peeked out the door through the narrow crack. She motioned him to look, and he saw several people drifting in their direction, wondering about their reconciliation. She pulled him out of sight of the door and looked up at him with a grin and an impish sparkle to her eyes. She handed him a meat pie and a coke, then began to emote.

  
“Oh, darling,” she cried, opening her own wrapped pie. “Kiss me, oh, please, ah, darling Kit.” He stared at her for a moment as she took a bite of pie, then, with her mouth full of food, deliberately cried out his name, gesturing to him to eat his own. He did so as she made her own one-person-show in their corner, which to any listener must seem a heated, passionate reunion, if not more. The gelding stared at them both with ears pricked as Donna finished her pie and coke, and ended her drama with a startled exclamation.

  
“Oh, darling, I’ll miss the class! No, really, we’ll have to do it later. I promise I’ll make it up to you, really.” She put a few wisps of straw in her hair and on her coat, tossed a handful over him, and took Tim’s reins. Bemused at her words, he heard the rapid retreat of several pairs of feet and realized that she’d been having a joke on the other grooms, while reinforcing their cover story.

  
She opened the door and led the bay out, brushing pointedly at the straw, deliberately not seeing the wide-eyed Jake, or the two older men down the aisle. The unsuspecting Phantom followed the horse out, Donna tightening the girth in the aisle. He was brushing off his own bits of straw, when she turned to him. Her hands took him firmly by the neck and she kissed him with a passion that was not one bit feigned.

  
At first stiff with surprise, the big man let his arms slide around the woman’s waist, pulling her to him, and bent to kiss her in return, amazed at how easy it was. The tall blond let her supple body melt into his arms, feeling his lips warm and willing on her own, wishing she could go on forever. She broke from him for a brief moment, close enough to see past the mask to his intense, gray eyes, riveted to hers, shadowed by his hat into a private moment none could touch.

  
Donna felt almost as if he’d touched her lips with electric current, her heart beating wildly, faster than it did when jumping Tim. The look of his eyes, the hold of his arms suddenly frightened her, and she let go of his head and pushed him away. To her surprise, and some disappointment, he let her go, as if still playing the part she had given him. Was that all it had been for him, an act? She felt crushed, almost as if he had rejected her. She whirled to her horse and vaulted into the saddle without touching the stirrup, and wheeled Tim toward the nearest doorway.

  
An iron hand took the bay’s reins, halting her before she had started him. She looked down at the giant, face still hidden from other watchers, and saw his gentle, kind smile, as he took her hand from the reins. Tim stood like a rock beneath her as he kissed her wrist between her glove and her cuff.

  
“Good luck, Donna,” he said softly, his thumb brushing across the same spot he had kissed, making her feel very strange inside. “Be careful.”

  
“Careful,” she said, dazed. “Right. Careful.”

  
“Go on, Tim,” he told the big bay, releasing the reins. “I’ll be right there.”

  
The horse took charge, knowing what should be happening at this time of day. With little direction from his still-entranced rider, he walked purposefully toward the show arena, his ears flicking back repeatedly. About halfway there, she came to her senses, and legged him into a trot, trying to pound her emotional turmoil into a box in her head and slam the lid on it. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about the Kiss.

  
Though she never remembered warming up, she must have done so, for when she was at the in gate, awaiting her turn, Tim was ready. To her vast pleasure, and an increase in her heart rate, so was the reason for her muddle, wiping her boots and Tim’s bit as if nothing was different from that morning.

  
Never before had Donna had such a reaction to a single kiss, not once, from three lovers and endless experimentation. Even now, she realized, entering the arena, she could still feel his arms around her, his lips on her own. How could such a simple act, not even meant to be real, become so much more, she wondered, even as Tim got up to speed for the first fence, a large oxer.

  
That they finished the class without faults was much more the big bay’s responsibility than his rider’s, for it was all she could do to remember the course. Put out at her lack of attention, in spite of his brilliant saves, the gelding gave a little flourish with his heels. Meant to remind her of her job, the tiny buck caught her attention long enough to get them out of the arena and to the warm-up ring.

  
Shaking, she slid from the saddle and leaned into her old friend, breathing deeply, trying to think rationally, not with her heart. The horse nosed her into his shoulder and curled his neck and head around her, the closest he could get to holding her. He swished his tail in agitation, warning other horses away from them.

  
“Donna,” said that marvelous voice, concern in its tones, “what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  
“Uh, fine, Kit,” she said, hugging the strong brown neck of her solid, reliable, constant friend. “I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong. I’m alright.”

  
Her words did not reassure the man in the khaki overcoat, who heard the tremor in her voice. The round she had just put in had been that of a different person than he had seen the rest of the day. Did she dislike him so much, had he done something wrong, he wondered, reliving that moment of perfect joy in his mind. Could she have had that much of a different reaction than he had had, or was she sick for some reason? Should he just leave, or did she need him, as he had needed, still needed, her?

  
“I hope so, because if you ride that way in the jump-off, you’ll get killed,” said an older man on a sweaty young filly, just out of the ring. The Phantom recognized him as James Kildare, one of the few people on the show circuit that Donna respected and admired without reservations. “Get your personal problems out of the way before you ride, girl. Your horse, at least, deserves that.”

  
“Yessir,” said Donna, the sound suspiciously like a sniffle. Since her face was covered with Tim’s mane, neither man could tell if it really had been. Kildare rode on, and, with no thought to any watchers, the Ghost Who Walks vaulted the fence rail and landed next to Donna. Tim’s ears flattened in warning, worried about his human himself. If anyone had seen anything odd about the big man, they thought little of it.

  
“Donna,” he said, putting his hands carefully on her shoulders, a wary eye on the bay. She flinched only a little, then seemed to yield to him, her arms letting go of her horse. He turned her gently so that she faced him, between the thoroughbred’s solid shoulder and his own large body, a private place of their own. “Donna, it’s alright, everything’s fine. Don’t stop now, you’ll get hurt. I’ll feel very badly, if you get hurt, Donna.”

  
“You will?” she said in dawning hope. “Really?”

  
“Really,” he told her, wanting desperately to kiss her again, to feel her lovely body pressed against his. He even felt a flash of jealousy for Tim, to whom she had gone for support. “Please, be careful. None of this is worth your life, or even your pain. Tell me what I’ve done wrong, but don’t get hurt. Please.”

  
Donna stared at him through tear-blurred eyes, realizing that he did care for her, that he thought he had done something wrong. A flood of happiness seemed to come over her, and she smiled up at him in relief. He cared. She nodded, wiping her eyes with the backs of her gloves, then sniffling. His hat and coat did not conceal his face from her at this distance, and she saw him looking down at her with concern, worried about her.

  
“Nothing has changed,” he told her forcefully, his callused thumbs caressing her throat, the white skin above her collar. How he wanted to pull her head to his shoulder and stroke her like a cat, make her purr and relax. “Only what you want to change. Got that? Nothing changes until you say so. Now, go out there and ride like you’re in control, not Tim.”

  
“Yes, Kit,” she said in a tiny voice, nodding. She turned to mount the patient gelding and felt his hands close on her waist. To her surprise, he lifted her into the saddle as easily as if she had been a child on its first pony. The strength that took astonished her, for she was no child, and Tim no pony.

  
Their jump-off round was completely different from their first, and good enough to take the blue rosette, an excellent showing. James Kildare’s young filly won the class by half a second, and only the new electric timer could have told the difference.

Donna was pleased at their showing, and went through the obligatory motions without a hitch. But her main thought was always one thing. What did she want to change?

  
With the end of that class, the show was over, and crowds everywhere made conversation, especially intimate conversation, impossible. They proceeded in silence toward the barn, Tim flourishing his ribbon as if to advertise to the people around them. Donna slid from the saddle in Tim’s stall and turned around, only to find the Phantom right behind her.

  
With a slowness and caution that allowed Donna the option of retreat, or even refusal, he bent his head to her upturned face. Donna, her mouth open a little in surprise, let him kiss her, wondering if it would be as electric as the first time.

  
It was. Fire seemed to course through her veins, burning away her fears, her anxiety over his intentions. He held her gently at first, allowing her the chance to be free of him, if she wanted it so. Her arms came up around his neck and knocked his hat off, but held him closer, leaning into his kiss with one of her own. He pulled her to him and into ‘their’ corner behind the door, her feet brushing straw with her boot tips, her helmet falling into the bedding, unheeded.

How long it lasted, Donna didn’t know, his strong arms seemed to bypass time, create a world all their own. He let her down to her feet at last, and she looked up at his face, his warm gray eyes behind the black mask, his soul, she thought to herself. She said nothing, her body throbbing with desire and emotion, wanting only his lips again on her own. She felt his body against hers where he held her close, hard beneath the coat, and warm, and realized that she had never really loved anyone before. It wasn’t only his beautifully sculpted body that drew her, or his vast strength, but his gentle caring, his courage and courtesy. This was love, she realized, half-elated, half-despairing, feeling fire and ice in her veins at the same time.

  
How could she love someone who would see her life run out in an eyeblink, and more importantly, how could he love her? To him, her life would wither even as he watched, leaving him alone, only pain for his efforts in the end. Surely, if she loved him, she should not let him love her, she thought, still tasting his lips on her own, still feeling his warmth, the masculine aliveness of him. She did love him, she knew, and she couldn’t change that, didn’t want to change it, but she couldn’t tell him, couldn’t hurt him that way. He would be gone soon, and she could spend the rest of her life remembering him, so that he could forget her, live on through the centuries without her. But she wanted him very badly at that moment, wondering if an immortal could make love, would love like an ordinary man, or more like the ancient gods.

  
“What do you want to change?” he said softly, letting her pull away a little, still looking down at her with wonder in his heart. “Tell me, and I’ll change it, Donna.”

  
“Nothing,” she whispered, still feeling her heart thundering in her chest, her blood pounding in her ears. “Don’t change anything for me, Phantom. Nothing.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> romance furthered somewhat

Tim, growing impatient at the lack of attention he was getting, stamped politely several times, champing noisily at his bit. When this brought no one to take off his tack, he decided on less subtle measures. He nudged his human with his nose, pushing Donna back up against the Phantom with a thump, surprising them both. As much as Donna wanted to stay there, it had the intended result.

  
“First things first, Donna,” the giant murmured in her ear as she turned to glare at the horse. “Take care of Tim, then we can talk about this. Go take off your show gear and I’ll do my ‘job.’ Go on, a horse has to eat, you know.”

  
“Yes, O Ghost Who Walks,” Donna said obediently, picking up her helmet and his hat. She gave him his disguising Akubra, and stumbled out of Tim’s stall to the one beside it where her tack was stored. She took her time as she hung up her coat and ratcatcher shirt, rather hoping he would come in with her saddle and find her in her bra and breeches. He had waited politely outside, however, the gelding’s tack hung on the lower door half, when she finally came out in her windcheater and turtleneck.

  
Wordlessly, each deep in their own thoughts, they fed the bay, wiped him down, put away his gear and made certain his doors were secured, his water full. Each noticed how perfectly they worked together, without words spoken, without even looks exchanged. An hour of daylight remained, as it was summer, and the two somehow found themselves walking side by side through the rapidly emptying grounds. Though it had been gloomy all day, the clouds were now gone, letting anemic sunlight down to the earth, as if in omen. Donna wished she knew what kind of omen it might be.

  
Without either really directing their steps, they came to Donna’s room again, she oblivious to the stares and knowing looks of the other horsefolk in the area. Donna found herself reluctant to enter with him, and with less subtlety than she would have liked, redirected their path to the pub. Somehow, they got a table for two in the rear of the rapidly filling establishment, a dark and cozy sort of place. The view they had showed them the entire room, and most of the people in it, a distinct advantage, the Phantom thought. Donna realized that that meant they were in full view, as well, and thought it a disadvantage. A waitress brought them water and departed for more demanding customers.

  
“Kit,” she said quietly, trailing her finger idly about on the dark wood of the table, “I’m sorry I, well, lost my focus today like that. I’ll try not to let it happen again. I’ll try to keep my mind on the plan, really.”

  
“Donna, I didn’t mind at all,” he told her just as quietly, seeing that her hair now looked brown, rather than blond in the dim light. “You’re much more important than the plan. You were brilliant, and you still are. Don’t worry about what happened, just accept it. Your second round was perfect, after all, so you can ‘focus’ if you have to. I learned a long time ago not to worry about the past, you see, only about the future, what you can change.”

  
Donna still stared at her finger on the table, thinking. ‘A long time ago’ for him probably meant several hundred years, she decided with a mental sigh. At first she thought he was talking about their surely mutual connection, then he seemed to be talking about the Grand Prix. Almost as if he were afraid to speak of his feelings, or lack of them, for her. That, at least, she had experience with. Even ancient, immortal supermen seemed to have trouble talking about their emotions.

  
“Do you feel anything when we kiss?” she blurted out, having to know, needing him to tell her that he felt their connection, as well. Surely he’d learned to recognize such, in four hundred years or so, for what it was, had it been there for him. “I mean, besides skin, a reaction that’s different. Do you?”

  
“Yes,” he said simply, wondering where to start, wishing she would look up at him. He put out his hand and carefully raised her chin so that he could see her face. “Wonderful things. I’ve never felt that way before, Donna. Never. I think I’m falling in love with you. Do you mind?”

  
She stared at him in shock. Her heart sang in her chest even as she realized that she would eventually hurt him. He would go on, maybe for another four centuries, but she would eventually leave him, willing or not. Surely he knew this, yet he had told her the truth, as he felt it, just as she had asked him to. This was no ordinary man, even on an emotional level, she thought, a revelation after her previous men. 

  
Men, she thought scornfully of them now, boys, more likely. How could she even compare them to the man in front of her, his rock steady hand cupping her chin with gentle care. This had to be some sort of dream, she mused, staring into the shadowy place where his eyes were hidden. The mouth, chin and nose were dimly lit in their dark corner, but his eyes were invisible, even his mask hidden from her.

  
“Uh, no, I don’t mind at all,” she stammered, her eyes wide and dark with pupil as they tried to see beneath the shadowing hat. To him, she seemed shocked, startled, and he cursed himself silently for a fool, seeing that she knew nothing about him. Only what little a New Zealand anthropology student might have heard or read, only the legend. She thought him the immortal Man Who Cannot Die, the eternal demi-god nemesis of evil-doers, in spite of the wounds she herself had treated. Well, he had been forcing himself, through the minor pain, to move normally, he reminded himself. And his oversight was easily corrected.

  
He took her hand carefully, the one she had been using to trace wood grain, and raised it to his lips, finding that current of electricity there, too, along with the scent of hay, oil, leather and horse. She stared at him, still silent and wide-eyed, but now something else moved in her face, the look of enjoyment, of an emotion like his own. They sat there for some time, hand in hand, just looking at each other, until he stirred and rose to his feet.

  
“Stay here, Donna,” he told her, laying her hand back on the table as if it might break. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  
“I’ll wait,” she agreed, sighing as he left. She would wait forever, if he wanted it that way. Her eyes followed him as he moved through the crowded bar like a ghost. That made her giggle to herself, and she waved the waitress over and ordered sodas. She sat scanning the crowd idly, noting that Harry Jackson was looking her way, and well past his limit by other people’s standards. The sandy-haired rider stood, and then Kit was back, dumping the thought of anyone else from her mind. His left hand was scratched across the back and oozing tiny droplets of blood.

  
“What happened?” Donna asked, smoothing her forefinger across the minor injury, reaching for a napkin to blot it dry. “Cut yourself on the sink?”

  
“It seems Dennis Fletcher really does have lots of money,” said that deep voice calmly. “He had a few guys try to beat me up. Don’t worry, I didn’t kill them. But he owes them a bonus, I think, for hazardous duty, kind of.”

  
“He what?” exclaimed the blond, horrified. What had Dennis been thinking? This was New Zealand, not Chicago. And he might have been hurt, re-injured his back, really been cut. The next time she saw Dennis Fletcher, he was a dead man.

  
“It’s nothing, Donna,” he said dismissively, using the right hand to drink his soda. He liked the way she held his scratched hand, as if it had endured major trauma, rather than a mere abrasion. True, it had occurred during mortal combat, but he was not about to tell her that.

  
“I say, Donna, old girl,” said a slurry voice behind them. “Come play with me outside, will you? I have a nice piece of candy for you, if you do.”

  
“Harry Jackson,” said Donna severely, eyes cold and hard suddenly. “You’re playing with fire. Go get another drink and fall down, why don’t you?”

  
“Naw, Donna, only if you’re beneath me when I do,” leered the drunk. “See if you really are a woman, now that your American sugar daddy’s turned you on, eh?”

  
The speed at which the ‘American’ moved was phenomenal to any who watched, and some in their area had. Before Donna could form a suitably cutting retort, the big man in the overcoat had, with one hand, forced the rider to his knees. The silver skull ring gleamed malevolently from beneath Jackson’s chin as the Phantom held him, choking on his knees, not even appearing to notice the clawing hands or the struggles of the New Zealander.

  
“Do you want something in particular done with this thing?” he asked Donna politely, mildly, yet heard by everyone in the bar. “Or shall I just toss it out with the garbage in back?”

  
Donna watched in fascination as the heavyset man on the floor began to turn strange colors. There was a notable lack of interference by any other patrons, for despite his soft words, the tall stranger commanded the room. As Jackson’s eyes began to bulge, Donna came to her senses with a start, though Kit seemed willing to wait for her word until the man died of his iron grip.

  
“Oh, leave him, Kit,” she said, loudly enough for the rest to hear. “He’s not worth bothering about. I do hope he’s got enough to cover his bar tab on him, since he’s such a deadbeat, as you Americans say. Owes everyone money, and can’t pay. Maybe he wanted to start that fire, hmm?”

  
The hand that had held Harry Jackson’s throat opened, and the man fell gasping on the floor, barely conscious. The tall man toed the New Zealander as Donna had done to her earlier victim, and suggested softly, “Leave. Now.”

  
Without help or interference by anyone, the gasping man staggered to his feet and reeled toward the door, staying as far away from the watching Phantom as he could. The giant remained standing until Harry Jackson had gone stumbling out into the twilight, then settled back at Donna’s side, back to the paneled wall, unseen eyes on the rest of the crowd. Quite suddenly, everyone was very busy with their own affairs, having no desire to attract the attention of Donna McLaren’s guardian.

  
Americans, so violent, was the consensus, and the story of their tryst was again trotted out and embellished, until it was a masterwork of erotic fiction. As their characters were being assassinated quietly all around them, Donna watched the disguised Phantom, and he watched the crowd. It was nearly dark, and soon the time for disguises would be past, and the stalking would begin.

  
Always before, such hunting had been just a dangerous, serious game to the Phantom, the pursuit of criminals of all kinds. Never had he hesitated or faltered in the deadly sport, or worried about the consequences to others. Tonight was different, he realized, not because his prey was different, but because their intended victim was. It had become far more important to stop this gang than any other, because the Firebugs threatened Donna McLaren’s horse and her happiness. And yet, he would have no more reason to stay here with her. Seldom did his work bring him to these islands, and he doubted he would be back. That was a disturbing thought. Would she come to visit him, he wondered, watching the people at the bar, several of whom seemed familiar. Only as they left the crowded pub did he recognize them as his targets.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> think im getting the hang of this. maybe. Big fight and rescue. Proposal

“Donna, come on,” he said, loath to miss what time they might have left together. “They just left.”

  
“Who?” asked Donna in confusion, having completely lost track of why they were waiting. She had been daydreaming about him, what he might look like without his mask and hood, or costume, for that matter.

  
“The Firebugs,” he said, taking her hand as she came around the table. “Hurry.”

  
In spite of his earlier ease with the crowd, it now seemed impossible to move through it with any speed. Donna scurried behind him, bumping into people with scattered apologies, though he never seemed to touch anyone else. It seemed forever before they escaped the pub, and as the Phantom had feared, their enemies were out of sight.

  
“Run,” he said to her, hoping that her long legs would lend her speed. “They’ll head for the barn.”

  
Donna wasted no time, sprinting across the road as if demons chased her, yet soon lost sight of her far fleeter companion. Never had a show ground seemed so endless, so time consuming to cross, nor boots such encumbrances. Although she had never competed in track events, she had never thought herself so slow, and then she saw the lorry parked near the barn. Beside it lay the discarded coat and hat of the man she was in love with, and beyond yawned the barn, filled with horses and hay.

  
“Go call the Fire Department,” ordered the Phantom, an indistinct shape in the night. "They’re in there now. Go, I’ll meet you at Tim’s stall.”

  
“Promise me,” she insisted as he turned, and she saw leaping flames down the aisle.

  
“I promise, Donna,” he said and seemed to vanish into the building, like the smoke she could now smell above the manure and damp straw. The blond fled to the office, dialed the triple ones of the emergency line and spoke hurriedly to the operator who answered. She lost some time explaining, then simply left the handset hanging and ran, unable to wait any longer with danger threatening the creatures she loved.

  
Already horses were kicking and whinnying in fear, flames and smoke rising to the roof where open beamwork let air in to fuel the fire. Above the aisle was a catwalk, and some riders had stored hay there, easily tossed down to the aisle. Donna saw masses of smoke billowing down from the upper reaches of the barn, and a flash of purple silk, then the entire upper tier was obscured. She could hear shouting and the deeper voice of the Phantom, and knew that he was in the fire’s heart, pursuing the gang without her help.

  
She couldn’t see anymore standing up, the smoke making her eyes sting and tear, and she kept tripping over tack trunks and haycarts on her way toward her beloved horse’s stall. She could hear kicking and frantic, panic-stricken calls, but dared not stop to let horses out. They would have been as blinded and confused as she, and they could be released from outside by firemen. She tripped over a bucket and fell, hearing Tim scream, and realized that she could see at ground level.

  
Tim screamed again, and Dona scrambled along the dirt floor toward the sound, hearing the Phantom and the arsonists above her. Flames were everywhere, smoke obscured everything above six feet, and other horses screamed and kicked, as well. There were less screams as someone was letting the horses out of their outside doors, but this end of the barn was still Hell on Earth. The Phantom, high in the rafters, must be breathing smoke and flame, she thought, her heart twisting in her chest at the idea.

  
She found one of her towels on her tack room door, and soaked it in water, then used it to breathe through. The towel smelled of saddle soap, but it let her stagger toward Tim’s stall and speak to him. Her voice calmed him and he was unhappy, but quiet. She pulled on his blanket and soaked it with most of his water, haltered him and went back into the barn aisle. The sounds of conflict had stopped, and there were fewer sounds of horses over the roar of flames. Where was he?

  
A beam cracked over her head like a gunshot, but she hardly noticed it as she saw him, staggering toward her, coughing and soot-blackened. One arm hung oddly by his side, with scarlet highlights from shoulder to wrist, so he had been hurt. He was almost to her side when the roof fell in on him in a shower of sparks and splinters. Semi-conscious from smoke inhalation, he didn’t react fast enough when she screamed at him in warning. One beam struck him down, pinning him beneath the flaming wood, unmoving.

  
Donna forgot her own fears and ran to him, desperate thoughts leaping through her mind as the flames around her were doing. Taking the square beam end in both hands, ignoring the searing heat and great weight, she fought to drag it far enough to free him. It hardly budged, at first, and Donna almost despaired, but she set her hands to the end of the wood and gave it all she had. Somehow, almost as if some outside agency was helping her, loaning her Tim’s strength, she lifted the timber, inches at a time, until she could set it down and drag his limp body from the aisle. In Tim’s stall, the door slammed against the inferno, the gelding stood between them and the door, as if to protect them. Flames were already seeking the wood of his sanctuary, and Donna longed to break open the outer door and ride out on the bay’s strong back. The Phantom was in no shape to do any such thing, however, and if she opened the doors now, air would feed the fire into the room like a blast furnace.

  
“Down, Tim!” she commanded, and he obeyed, anxiously whickering to her in fear. With a mighty effort, she heaved the limp form across Tim’s withers, draping the lead rope across the sooty body, then straddling his back herself.

  
“Up, boy, come up!” she cried, and the gelding surged to his feet, lent impetus by another crash from the barn. She clung grimly to his lead rope and the man across his back, turning him at the outer door, knowing that it was bolted shut. The horse had been out that way before, and Donna had much faith in his intelligence and bravery.

  
“Alright, Tim,” she told her friend, “it’s up to you. Trust me now, and we’ll maybe get out of this. Go!”

  
She drove her heels into his flanks, bending over the Phantom and clinging to the black mane. The big horse lunged forward, head down, and smashed through the wooden doors that blocked their way to freedom. In seconds, he was away in the dark, plunging up the hill behind the barns, his double burden safe from the terrifying enemy. Donna had had only a brief glimpse of startled faces as they broke free, and felt not at all like hanging about.

  
The faithful horse slowed at her word, praised for his obedience with hand and voice, and stopped at the top of the hill. She slid from the damp blanket, and gently eased the Phantom to the grass, his dead weight taxing her twitching muscles. She stripped off Tim’s blanket and laid it on the ground next to the man, rolling his unresponsive body onto it. Horrified, she found that he was not breathing, and though he had a pulse, it was thin and hard to find. She ripped the towel from her face and struck him hard above his heart.

  
“Don’t you dare die on me now, Phantom,” she growled, and bent to breathe into him her own breath, Tim watching over them like a sentry. No one fighting the fire below them thought a thing about the lone horse on the hill, as there were loose horses everywhere. Her frantic mouth to mouth brought a response after a long while, though not what she wanted. He choked and heaved, coughing weakly, his body shuddering beneath her. She helped him roll to one side so that he could more easily clear his lungs, only to hear him gasp in pain, choking off into another racking cough.

  
“Bother, wrong side,” she muttered, realizing that his left arm was still bloody, a knife wound, she thought, vague as to what such things looked like. She carefully leaned him to the other side, and held him as he hacked and wheezed. She wrapped her towel around his shoulder, as he gasped in air and began to stop shaking.

  
“I thought you were dead,” she told him, his head on her shoulder, his body propped up against her own.

  
“It takes more than that to kill me,” he whispered hoarsely, exhausted. “Although maybe not much more. What happened?”

  
“I don’t know what you did, but after the roof fell on you, I dragged you over to Tim and he rescued us both,” she said, smoothing his sooty cheek, kissing his hood gently. “You weren’t breathing when we got here, so I did it for you, and it worked. What did you do with the Firebugs, and what happened to your shoulder?”

  
“I knocked them out and threw them out the air shafts, off the roof,” he whispered, feeling the strength of her, her caring, and he knew her destiny now. “One of them had a knife I didn’t see. I think I broke his neck by accident.”

  
“I’d have broken it on purpose,” she said fiercely, her grip on him never moving, gazing down at his fire-lit shape, reliving the taste of sooty lips beneath her own again.

  
“I don’t usually kill if I can avoid it,” he said faintly, realizing the blood loss was tiring him quickly. “Can we go home, Donna? Can Tim carry us, I mean? I’m not sure I can walk that far.”

  
“Lucky for you the emergency kit is still in my room,” she teased, her heart leaping at his use of the word ‘home.’ “Tim, down boy, good boy.”

  
The gelding obeyed almost eagerly, helpfully nosing the Phantom’s leg into position as he lay panting over the horse’s neck. Donna looked at his unsteady balance doubtfully.

  
“Do you want me to ride behind you?” she asked, not liking how weak he still seemed, so recently back from Death’s door. And if he had crossed over, what would have happened to him? Would he have vanished into thin air, a puff of smoke, a choir of angels singing?

  
“I’m afraid that my preference and my equilibrium will both require it,” he sighed. “I’m not sure I can stay on by myself.”

  
“Well, at least Tim won’t have to crash through any doors like this,” she muttered, getting on behind him. She took a good grip of the black mane around the Phantom and gave Tim the command. She was acutely aware of the Phantom’s thighs against hers, his firm rump nestled against her pelvis. He was so unsteady, even at the walk, that she drew him back against her, arm around his waist. His back pressing on her breasts was exciting, but his blood running down her leg was not. She rode Tim right up to her room unobserved, as everyone else was at the fire.

  
She somehow managed to get him into the bathtub, and then opened the back window. She rode Tim around to the field behind the cabins and turned him loose, then crawled in the window. Locking the front door, she turned on the bathroom light and got her first good look at the bedraggled Ghost Who Walks.

  
“Oh, God,” she whispered, tugging off first her boots and then his. She pulled off his gunbelt and tossed it toward the boots. “I love you, Phantom, don’t you dare die on me.”

  
She was reaching for the towel on his shoulder when his hand, the one with the skull ring, took hold of her wrist, either gently, or with a frightening weakness, she couldn’t tell. His eyes looked up at her out of a blackened, masked face, and she felt as if she could fall into them, grey as ash, deep as the seas.

  
“Marry me, Donna,” he whispered. “Please, marry me.”

  
“If you live,” she replied, stricken at the weakness in his voice, “I will. But I can’t say I think it looks likely. I have to get you cleaned up, and I may need to take you to a hospital.”

  
“I am in your capable hands, Donna,” he said, kissing her hand, one that had his blood on it. "Let me make it easier for you.”

  
Releasing her hand, he managed to peel his hood and mask off, revealing his face to her at last. She saw that he was indeed a handsome man, but character and exhaustion over rode mere looks. The paler skin, which the mask had covered, only emphasized his state of filth. She suspected that she was no better. Leaning awkwardly down to kiss him, she tasted salt, blood, soot and her own tears. His kiss was gentle, passive, and soon she found that he was again unconscious.

  
“What a proposal,” she sighed, fetching the medical kit. She decided that the tunic had to go, and resolutely cut it off of him. If she cleaned him up with the shower, it would be quicker, she thought, but that left his shorts and tights wet, and the skin beneath dirty. She managed to remove these garments without destroying them, a minor triumph. By this time she had decided that she might as well strip, too, as her clothes and skin would just get him dirty again. Too much trouble for that to be the result.

  
She was glad that the shower boasted the type of faucet that you could use like a hose, for it was a great help in this instance. A warm, gentle flow, carefully chosen, rinsed them both off quickly, for the water ran pink near his left shoulder, frightening her more than she cared to admit.

  
She shut off the water and knelt across his knees to keep him from slipping down into the tub. With a towel she hadn’t used the night before, she patted the area around her stable rag dry. She cautiously peeled the red-brown mess away from the wound, a deep gash in the fleshy part of the pectoral, near the collar bone. It did not seem to be bleeding excessively, and she smeared antiseptic all over it and the surrounding tissue. She patted it dry, then decided on stitches, as it was so deep and long, though she wasn’t certain that she should. She soaked the nylon thread in disinfectant and began, forcing herself to poke holes in his flesh, to pull his skin together. She finally padded it with the last of the gauze, and taped it on, then sat back to think.

  
She realized that it would have seemed quite erotic, had anyone observed them. She, naked and astride his muscular thighs, he naked beneath her, and in a bathtub, yet. He was really quite handsome, she thought, using a towel to dry his black hair a little, feeling her own tiredness hovering at the edge of awareness. Well, he couldn’t stay in this tub, she thought resolutely, getting up.

  
She dried off briefly, and donned her robe, then dried him off as much as she could, regretting the bandages all over his back. They would stay damp for a while, and were looking a little dingy. Gracelessly, she dragged his naked, unresisting body to the bed, and managed to get him up onto it, with his left shoulder in the air. She shoved him toward the center and felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction and love. She had taken care of this man, her fiance, her mind caressing the word. She turned out the lights and climbed carefully in beside him, her body never noticing the damp gauze as they slept.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after action

Tim woke them the next day, whuffling softly from the open window. Donna sat up, her hand protectively on the Phantom’s arm, then whuffled back to her horse. He nodded his big head and withdrew, showing morning light behind him. The Phantom sighed.

  
“I’m going to marry a horse,” he said, not moving. Donna went around to kneel beside the bed where he lay, and he took in her nude body with appreciation. “Well, you speak horse, but you certainly don’t look like one.”

  
“Oh, thank you so much, O Ghost Who Gets Dragged Like a Sack of Oats,” she smiled, incredibly relieved to find him able to make jokes after such a serious injury. He must be awfully tough, she thought proudly. Even if he was hundreds of years old, that much blood lost must be hard on someone. “How do you feel today? I hope the stitches hold.”

  
“I feel happy, Donna,” he told her, touching her face with his right hand. “My shoulder feels like hell, though.”

  
“Well, let me look, and if it’s still bleeding, we’re going to a doctor. We’ll tell him you got cut in the fire, and that you’re my fiancé. Truth, really.” She gently moved his shoulder back to look and saw only old blood on the gauze. “Not bad. Look, you stay here, love, and sleep some more. Don’t get out of bed unless this place burns down, you hear?”

  
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, smiling at her. “Where are you going?”

  
“To get more gauze, something for you to wear, see if Tim’s alright, and check out the fire. I’ll bet Tim needs a new saddle. I want to find out about those Firebugs, too.”

  
He watched from his comfortable place on the bed as she threw on a pair of jeans, a cotton blouse and a pair of sandals, grabbed her purse and carefully hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door. Then she left by the back window.

  
Watching her go, the Phantom smiled to himself, well content. Just like one of the family, already. Sleep came easily, with very pleasant dreams, almost all having to do with his wonderfully capable, amazingly beautiful wife to be.

  
Donna checked on Tim, who had been grazing all night in the field with several other escaped horses. He had three cuts on his legs and a patch of hair scraped off of his shoulder, but was in fine shape otherwise. Far from being upset, he seemed happy for her, and would stay there on guard at her word, with none of his usual displays of jealousy. She promised him a treat, and went to find her car.

  
She drove to the showgrounds, and found that, as expected, the barn and its contents were gone. She had really liked that saddle, but she liked Tim and the Phantom much more. She arranged to have hay delivered to the field were Tim was, and was gratified at the pleasure the two volunteers showed at Tim’s safe escape.

  
“Rode him out of a burning barn in a halter,” repeated the older woman, in awe, unaware of how the actual escape eclipsed such a thing. “Dear, that horse must love you more than anything else. We lost six that ran back into the barn. Caught the despicable, bloody insects that set it, though. They all fell off the roof of your barn and knocked themselves silly.”

  
“Coppers told me they were all swearing a purple ghost threw them out,” the red-haired girl confided. “One broke his horse-killing neck in the fall, and good riddance to him. Seems they’re all some gang as does this for hire, so Larry says. All got a skull mark on their faces, but they say the ghost put it there. More than a few folk around here are set to hang the bloody lot, pardon me for saying so.”

  
“Here, dear,” said the solidly horsey older lady, handing her an address booklet. “Put down your name, phone number and address and someone will call you about the insurance. They’ll be pleased enough to pay up, I imagine, as that’s the end of these vermin.”

  
“Thank you very much,” Donna told them sincerely, more for the information than the chance to be repaid for her loss. “Can you tell me where I can go to get some gauze, some bandages, that kind of thing? I’d like to fix his cuts. Horse or human type are all the same. And I need a new coat, mine caught fire.”

  
“Oh, just down the road in Ashburton, dear,” said the older woman, her slender hands taking back the booklet. “There’s an apothecary on the left, and a right modern clothes store near the post office. Has both mens and womens departments, so it does.”

  
“Thank you again,” she told them, almost running into a young man who had been waiting outside for her. “Oh, excuse me.”

  
“You’re the Donna McLaren who had stall number forty three?” he asked politely, giving the impression that he held his hat in his hand, though he had no hat, and nothing in his hands. “Detective Weeks.”

  
“Why, yes, before it became a cinder heap,” she said, far more lightly than she would have, had she not rescued what really mattered. “Why do you ask?”

  
“Well, ma’am, I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he said, his manner reminding her of an earnest spaniel. “Such as if you saw anything unusual during last night’s unpleasantness? Any strange people, or odd things?”

  
“I saw my horse trapped in a burning barn!” she exclaimed, realizing that he was trying to verify the story the arsonists had told. “I’m afraid all I remember is blanketing Tim, my horse, soaking his blanket with water and riding him out of the stall as it burst into flames all around us. I forgot to wet myself down, and lost my jacket and part of my shirt. I wasn’t about to come back here half-naked, Detective, so I went to my motel room and left my horse out back there. I, well, I’m afraid I fell asleep after that. Does that help you?”

  
“Miss, I take my hat off to you,” he said, bowing his hatless head in respect. “I think I saw that. Came right through the door, did you?”

  
“Yes,” she admitted, wondering if he had been close enough to make out details, such as other burdens the bay had been carrying. “It was bolted from the outside. Fortunately, Tim trusts me, and did as I told him. He scratched himself up, a little, though, and I need to go get some medicine and bandages for him. Also, a really big lot of carrots.”

  
“He’s alright, then?” said the young detective, an odd note in his voice. He resolved privately to see the horse himself, and anyone else nearby. “Doesn’t need a vet, then?”

  
“Oh, he will be,” she assured him, thinking not of Tim, but of the Phantom. “I’m having hay and water sent over for him, and the other horses. You might find out who owns them, as I don’t recognize any of them.”

  
“Thank you, Miss McLaren,” he said earnestly. “I may do that. You’re sure you saw no one else?”

  
“Sorry, I was rather anxious to get to Tim,” she told him truthfully. “He was screaming for me. Now, I really need to get some bandages and such. Perhaps you could come by later and see for yourself?”

  
“Yes, ma’am,” said the young detective, wondering at the invitation. “A pleasure, ma’am.”

  
She made it through the next two hours with not a hitch, though her prospective husband might need a tailor. She had had to guess most of his sizes, and ‘big’ just didn’t help much. She pulled around to the field, drove in and closed the gate again. Donna heaved packages into the open window and quickly treated Tim’s minor injuries, then spread a fifty pound sack of carrots around for the seven horses to eat. She left her Range Rover there and climbed back through the window herself.

  
She was pleased to see the Phantom awake, but less pleased to see that he held one of his guns. She realized that he must have been to the bathroom and winced, remembering what a mess she had left it.

  
“Going to shoot me,” she asked, tossing her purse on the table, “or kiss me?”

  
“Kissing is a definite winner,” he said, switching the gun to his left hand and using the right to lever himself upright. “I don’t suppose you found that coat again, did you?”

  
“Nope, I’ve decided that I like you this way,” she teased, picking up a box and opening it. “But only when we’re alone. Here, try these.”

  
A selection of boxer shorts, and a cotton robe emerged, as well as several sets of socks, all in white. She opened everything, spreading it everywhere, as if she were drying things on a rainy day.

  
“I’m going to try to clean up the bathroom,” she told him as he sat up on the edge of the bed, the sheet modestly over his lap. The gauze on his shoulder showed a dark blot in its center, as if it were a target, giving Donna a momentary episode of gooseflesh at the thought. “You find out if anything fits, or make a list, and I’ll try again. There’s half a dozen meat pies, some deli sandwiches and two six packs of soda in the sack on the table.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting out of town and onto the road to Auckland

She really had been tired the night before, she saw, for the mess had never even entered her mind. Now she picked up the leather belts and boots and set them in the entry, rinsed her clothes and what remained of his and hung them up to dry. She shook her head over the poor, never-to-be-white-again towels, and rinsed them out and hung them up, too. The soot and blood on the floor was mostly sponged up with toilet paper and flushed, giving the place less of the appearance of a crime scene. It was much better, even draped with probable rags, she thought, than it had been.

  
She emerged to find her mysterious fiancé dressed in boxers, a robe and little else. He was setting the table with what food and dinnerware that they had. This meant that the paper bag was a table cloth, and the wrappings their plates, the napkins paper, and the soda cans had straws. He held her chair for her and she let him play the gallant, smiling when she saw the gun in his robe pocket.

  
He ate neatly, in spite of the limited use of his left hand, she noticed, and ravenously. He had a lot of blood to replace, she told herself, and undoubtedly used more calories in a day than most polo ponies. He finished off the last meat pie before it was cold, and sat back to look at her with such obvious pleasure that she wondered why. It would be nice to know how to do it again, whatever it was.

  
“What?” she said, as he grinned at her puzzled look. “I spilled something, there’s a bug in my hair, what?”

  
“It was just so fast, so easy, so perfect,” he murmured, still with a silly grin on his square-jawed face. He needed a shave, she told herself, wondering how he would manage it, or if he would bother. She still didn't know how he had done it the night before. 

  
“If you ask me,” she told him sternly, “you haven’t had anything easy in the last two days. Fast, yes, perfect, no.”

  
“Not that,” he said dismissively, his good hand flicking their adventure away as if being shot was nothing. “You.”

  
“Me?” she repeated, confused.

  
“It was so fast, falling in love with you,” he told her seriously, but with happiness in those gray eyes. “So easy to get you to say ‘yes.’ And you’re so perfect. You just couldn’t be more perfect if I’d made a list.”

  
“It was easy to get me to say ‘yes?’” she repeated, blushing. “What’s it like when it’s hard? You were half dead.”

  
“All I had to do was ask,” he smiled, taking her hand gently. “That was easy. And you’re perfect. Smart, beautiful, witty, loyal, brave, strong, determined and the most capable girl I’ve ever met, baring one. I’ve always found ability in a woman sexy.”

  
“No one else has ever thought I was perfect,” she pointed out, blushing even more deeply. Who was the other woman she didn’t measure up to, she wondered, eaten up with jealousy. A long dead wife?

  
“No one?” he repeated delightedly. “I won’t have to steal you away from a dozen jealous boyfriends? I knew there were a lot of fools around these days, but that’s ridiculous. Except maybe Tim. He might be jealous. He, after all, is an intelligent and discerning fellow, as I have on excellent authority.”

  
“So he is,” she laughed. “Now, do you want to go on being silly, or do you want to hear what I’ve found out about the Firebugs?”

  
“Let me guess,” he said, smile fading from his face, but his eyes never leaving her own. “The gang is in custody, but have told the police a wild, unsubstantiated tale of one man beating them up and throwing them off of the roof. The alleged man wasn’t seen entering or leaving the barn by anyone, and cannot be proven. Police are putting this down as an attempt to shift blame to an imaginary person. How’s that?”

  
“You must do this a lot,” she said, impressed. “How often do you get shot or stabbed doing it?”

  
“Not nearly as often as our courtship might indicate,” he laughed, touched by the worry in her tone.

  
“I, um, gee,” she hesitated. “I need to know. You’re the Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks. Can you be killed? You bleed and hurt, mostly, like other men, but I need to know.”

  
Donna felt tears in her eyes and tried to suppress them, but they slid free down her cheeks. The mere thought of this man hurt was enough to upset her, but dead was far worse.

  
“I can be killed, Donna,” he told her, taking her other hand with his left, wincing at the pain, but needing to hold her hands in his. “I’m as mortal as you are. I feel pain, I feel loneliness, like anyone else. But this is my job, I’ve trained for it all my life, so I’m pretty good at it. I rescue people, fight the bad guys, keep the peace, help people. You’re just a natural, I guess.”

  
“Me?” she said uncertainly, swallowing around the lump in her throat. Drat the man, she had wanted to hear that he couldn’t be killed, that he would not be that much inconvenienced by her minimal medical skills.

  
“Sure. You’ve been helping me and rescuing me since we met. That’s usually my line of work, you know. But I don’t mind. I like it. You can stand the sight of blood without blinking, think during emergencies, train horses, ride like Epona herself, and get people and horses fed and clothed like magic. You even use windows to go in and out of a room. How could I ask for a better partner?”

  
“If I knew more about stitching people up, it would be better,” she said, her voice breaking.

  
“Don’t worry about it,” he soothed. “I’ll tell you what, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go see a doctor. I know one in Christchurch near the airport. But you’ll have to take me.”

  
“Really? Is that safe for you?” she asked, uncertain but relieved. “I don’t really know anything about you, do I? How do you live, where do you live, what’s your real name, is there an ex-wife, do you have a family, do you have a horse, anything. God, what am I going to tell my parents?”

  
“Oh, yes, your parents,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess it’s only right to tell them. They deserve to know who’s taking you from them.”

  
“What do I say?” she wondered aloud. “Hi, Mummy, Daddy. This is my fiance, an immortal superhero from Bengalla. He saved my life and Tim likes him, so we’re getting married? I don’t think so.”

  
“Tell them the truth, just not all of it,” he suggested, easing to his feet. “It usually works for me.”

  
“I’ll have to think about this,” she said, watching him critically. “How about if we load Tim up and start driving toward Auckland and talk it over on the way? It’s only a couple of days, and anyone we see won’t know you, if you do need a doctor.”

  
“Why go anywhere?” he asked, wrapping the remains of their lunch in the ‘tablecloth’ and putting it in the rather full trash tin near the bed. It had bloody bandages in it, as well as three days worth of assorted rubbish.

  
“Because I live near Auckland, love. I know at least five doctors there and my parents are there. Do any of these things fit? I talked to a policeman who’s likely to come calling later, and he’s going to wonder why I didn’t mention you.” She stood up and was staring down at a dark red sweater that she thought would be easy on his mauled torso.

  
His lips brushed the back of her head, and his arms slid gently around her waist. The feeling of his warm body behind her own was marred only by the hard shape of the gun in his pocket, pressed between his thigh and her hip. She turned in his arms, to slide her own arms around him, carefully staying below the level of his injuries, old and new. She looked up at him in enjoyment at his touch, and their lips met in a kiss that went on for a very long time. Exploration, promise and gentle possession glowed in that embrace, a wedding of souls as well completed as any high church rite.

  
Donna wondered dreamily why it had taken her so long to do this, delighting in his careful strength, his unhurried pace. He had no need to rush or force her, his control told her, he knew that she was his alone, and he was hers. It was like Tim, she told herself secretly, his muscled back and thighs, smooth, taut flesh ready to perform at her command. The idea was almost as exciting as he was, tempting even, but her carnal desires were going to have to take a back seat to his safety. She drew away from him reluctantly, yet again pleased by his slight hesitation to let her. She wondered if that had been why he had so easily let her go the day before, because he knew that she was his, and had no need to cling to her.

  
“And I want to be somewhere safe and alone with you,” she sighed, her heart thudding in her chest, blood pounding in her ears. “Not liable to interruptions of any kind, including Tim.”

  
“And so you will, Donna,” he said, his voice deeper than she remembered, and softer, a vocal caress. His shoulder had spotted the white cotton of his robe with blood, and Donna pointed to the bed with a hand that shook with desire and reawakened worry.

  
“Sit, O Ghost Who Walks,” she ordered, wishing he were healthy, fit, unharmed. “I’ll check your hide, then pack us up. Not much left to pack for Tim, so most of my clothes can go in the tack compartment, and you can use the back of Bernie to sleep in.”

  
She re-bandaged his shoulder, and removed most of the old tefla pads entirely. Band-Aids covered the rapidly healing holes satisfactorily, and his back beneath her hands received more kisses than were strictly necessary.

  
“At least you’ll be able to lay on your back without too much pain,” she judged, her chin on his shoulder, the right one. She kissed his neck, letting his dark hairbrush her cheek, “I think.”

  
“Just help me on with this sweater, will you?” he said, smiling. “Oh, T-shirt first, I guess. I don’t usually wear underclothes.”

  
Donna bounced off the bed and picked up one of the white garments. She handed it to him and helped him ease it over the shoulder wound. Once there, it was less difficult to stretch it over his head and other arm, and pull it down over his sculpted torso. When it was on, there seemed no injuries to his strongly made body, making Donna feel very much like a mare in heat, with no chance of a stallion.

  
“I noticed that,” she purred, handing him the sweater and repeating the actions, wishing that there had been something she had dared buy him that buttoned up the front. “It’ll save me a lot of time, later.”

  
“I’m marrying a sex kitten,” he mumbled delightedly from inside the sweater. Dressed at last, he wore tan slacks that weren’t too baggy, his own boots, and the close-fitting maroon sweater. He was quite delicious-looking, Donna thought. But then, she had never seen him when he wasn’t, bloody injuries included. She handed him her final touch, a pair of expensive, wraparound sunglasses, more concealing than his mask had been.

  
“I don’t know if you want these, but it seemed like a good idea,” she said shyly. She didn’t want him to cover his eyes against her, but they had almost demanded to be bought when in the store.

  
“It was an excellent idea,” he said in gratitude. “I’ll tell you why later. The rest of this can be put in that bag, there, can’t it?”

  
“Sure,” she said, intrigued. “No more saddle to put in it. Let me pack mine, and we’ll get going.”

  
In minutes, Donna had everything packed up, bathroom kit and all, and flung it unceremoniously into the back of her Range Rover. The ice box, with half a box of cereal and four cans of soda in it, was left for the Phantom to carry to the motel office, well within what Donna considered his weight limits. Donna hitched up her trailer and transferred most of her luggage to the now-empty tack compartment. She then shoved one bale of alfalfa hay in on the left side of the two-horse rig and left the other side open.

  
“Tim!” she called at the gate, and the bay came trotting to her, halter still on. She snapped his lead line on, led him out and closed the gate on the other horses. She pointed him to the trailer and he walked calmly in, rope across his neck. She put the bars and ramp in place, secured them, and made sure hay filled his manger, then drove to the front of the motel. The Phantom was waiting for her. She started to get out, but he waved her back in, opened the passenger door, and after awkwardly tossing the cooler in back, got in.

  
“I have to pay the bill,” she told him, puzzled. “Don’t I?”

  
“I took care of it,” he smiled. “They said to tell you you’re welcome anytime.”

  
“What did you do?” she asked curiously, pulling out onto the road.

  
“I doubled the fee, since we were so messy, what with the fire,” he told her, watching her drive, rather than the road.

  
“Well, yes, that would take care of it,” she said, laughing. “I was only going to add half. I didn’t see a wallet, where’d you get the money?”

  
“My belt has a few secrets, Donna,” he told her, never seeming to look at anything else around them. “It didn’t seem to bother them that it was American currency.”

  
“Speaking of secrets,” she pounced, “isn’t it about time that I knew a few of yours?”

  
“Yes,” he agreed, settling into the far less worn passenger seat. “Shall I begin at the beginning, or just answer questions?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the highlander gets mentioned, driving at night up the South Island

“From the start,” she decided, turning onto the main road north. It was only two lanes, but it was good pavement, having been recently resurfaced.

  
“Very well. At the beginning of the sixteenth century, in the Age of Exploration, a merchant ship was attacked by Singh pirates in the Bay of Bengal. The captain of the ship, desperate to keep his son alive, threw him overboard. As he fell, the boy saw his father killed by one of the pirates. Though that area is filled with sharks and reefs, the boy made it to shore alive, though half-drowned and sick at heart. The tribe who lived there, the Bandar, were pygmies, feared by all the jungle for their poisoned weapons, but they took the child in and cared for him as one of their own. One day, walking on the beach, the boy found a dead pirate wearing his father’s coat. He decided that this was his father’s killer. He waited until the crabs had cleaned the bones, and before the tribe that night, swore an oath on the murderer’s skull.” The light was fading outside, and Donna was completely enthralled, though it seemed to have little to do with him, so far.

  
“Go on,” she urged, turning on her headlamps. “What did he swear?”

  
“He swore the Oath,” said the Phantom quietly. “The Oath that began the Phantom. ‘I swear to devote my life to the destruction of piracy, injustice, cruelty and evil. And my sons, and their sons, shall follow me.’ The Bandar knew what they had witnessed, for they had a powerful shaman, and with their help, that boy grew up to be the first Phantom. Over the centuries, from that time to the present, the Oath has held my family, for the first-born son of each Phantom becomes the Phantom in turn. I am the twenty-second of my Line, having inherited the job when my father and his wife, my mother, died in a plane crash. That was three years ago.”

  
“Over four centuries of men like you,” she marveled, the dash lights showing him her face. “That’s the key, isn’t it? They all wore that costume, so they all seemed the same man.”

  
“Over the years, when one died, another came to finish what his father had begun,” agreed the dimly seen shape in the corner. “Many came to believe that there was only one, thus the legend. The First chose the name ‘Phantom,’ but others gave us ‘the Ghost Who Walks’ and ‘the Man Who Cannot Die.’ Each heir, always named ‘Kit,’ brought his father’s remains back to his home, to be interred with his ancestors, as I did with my father and mother. Usually, in the process, the deaths are avenged. So, too, were my parents’. Equally apparent to the killers was my living body, and their fear greatly helped to overcome them. It has always been so, therefore, we do not discourage such belief.”

  
“I’m sorry about your parents, Kit,” she said slowly, feeling regret for them, though she had only just discovered that they had ever existed. “I would have liked to meet them. They’d have been a lot more fun than mine will be for you.”

  
“They can’t be all that bad,” he scoffed gently. “They had you. Anyway, my sister Heloise is likely to be plenty of family for you to deal with. And Guran, and the Bandar, and Hero and Devil.”

  
“Brothers and sisters?” she asked, not used to thinking of her individual as part of a group.

  
“Only Heloise, my twin,” he corrected. “Guran is my friend, and the chief of the tribe. The Bandar are the pygmy tribe I mentioned, who share in the mysteries of the Deep Woods, and protect them as much as I do. Devil is my wolf, trained to help me in my work. Hero is my horse, a lot like your Tim.”

  
“I knew you had horses,” she said in satisfaction. “Why the mask? And the sunglasses? I can see how it would help the ‘one man’ idea, but how did that start?”

  
“Long ago, when the First swore the Oath before the Bandar to live as an avenger, the tribal shaman, Buli, helped him to decide how to do it. There was a local jungle deity, a masked god, who was associated with both death and vengeance. The Phantom became that deity personified, and was easily accepted by the local tribes as protector and judge. The mask is a powerful symbol in religion and myth, and often it conceals the god’s true power, so that he can walk among mortals. Almost from the beginning there was a curse associated with my Line and the mask.”

  
“The jungle folk say that if you look at the Phantom’s unmasked face, you will die a horrible death, the implication being that it will also happen rather quickly. It has a way of happening that none of my ancestors could ever explain as anything but coincidence, but it does happen. Our families and close friends are the only ones safe from that curse. You are safe from it, Donna, because you will marry me, but I worry about others, even when I’m in, uh, civilian clothes.”

  
“Well, Mummy can hardly complain that I’m not marrying well,” laughed Donna. “A god, yet. Or at least an incarnation of one.”

  
“No one else remembers that,” he told her, smiling to hear her laugh. “In the jungles of Bengalla, few tribes write, and so oral tradition is often all the memory people have. True, some of it is accurate enough to be frightening, but most is exaggerated over time for the sake of the story. A good storyteller can be a true artist, and sometimes what actually happened gets embellished to the point of fiction.”

  
“The Phantom Line has written records back to the First, for he began the tradition of the Chronicles, sort of a diary of his adventures and life. The stories told by the jungle folk of what a Phantom did, say a hundred years ago, hardly ever resemble that Phantom’s account. Many jungle tribes believe that I can fly, pick up an elephant, become invisible, and many other impossible things. All those ideas were based on fact, but exaggerated into legend.”

  
“So you live with a pygmy tribe in Bengalla,” she mused, envisioning a leaf-covered hut like the ones she had seen in her class books. “I’ve never heard of the Bandar tribe.”

  
“They’re not often spoken of outside the jungle,” he told her. “They are associated with the Deep Woods and the Phantom, and so are considered partly forbidden and partly dangerous. We who live in the Deep Woods help each other, for those who would not fear the Phantom’s protection, fear the Bandar, and their poison arrows. Those who would dare the Bandar, in spite of their reputation, learn to fear me.”

  
“Tell me about your home,” she requested, curious. “Do you have a good place for Tim? He won’t get eaten by big cats or anything, will he?”

“Tim will be fine,” he told her, never even thinking about leaving her beloved horse behind. “I have several horses who live quite safely in the Deep Woods. There’s a big meadow, lots of trees and a shallow cave to stay in during storms. The big cats don’t come very close to the Skull Cave, or the village, since the Bandar don’t care for them around their children.”

  
“The what, Skull Cave?” she repeated, memory eluding her of that part of her legend. “What’s that?”

  
“My home,” he told her, feeling a warmth inside him as he thought of her living there. “A giant cliff of limestone, the face of which is shaped like a giant human skull. Naturally, I might add, not caused by any human agency that I know of. Some of the rooms inside were helped along by my ancestors, but most of it is very natural. The Chronicles have their own place, there’s a library, the Crypt, where all the Phantoms are buried. The treasure rooms, the radio room, and some very comfortable living areas. Few people can find it, but some are brought there to see me, and have taken back stories to others. It became the Phantom symbol, along with the ring I wear, made from pirate loot by the First. It was partly that which made the Phantom so feared by evil men, for it leaves an indelible mark on the people I hit, like a scar. In Bengalla, it’s called ‘the mark,’ and the people who have it are avoided as trouble-makers and thieves, if not worse.”

  
“What’s it like, your Deep Woods?” she asked, carefully negotiating a one-way bridge, though no one else was in sight. Most New Zealanders seemed to be at their dinners.

  
“It’s a tropical paradise, most of the time,” he told her, feeling a touch of homesickness. “Jungle trees and vines, flowers everywhere, waterfalls and streams, beaches and surf, cliffs and mountains covered with lush green carpets hundreds of feet thick. No one goes there without permission, usually mine. The Bandar guard the forest trails and the reefs guard the sea. I suppose that if people out here knew exactly where it was, and believed in it, there’d be more difficulty with visitors, but they don’t.”

  
“What should I take to wear?” she asked, remembering her one trip to Australia, and the other to Japan. “Are we getting married there? What about my parents? How am I going to get Tim from here to Bengalla?”

  
“I think you could get Tim there on an air freighter to Mawitaan, the capitol, without trouble,” he told her calmly. “It might be a little more money, but I’d rather not have him go by boat. I might be able to find someone to take us all, if I can get a wire off tomorrow.”

  
“We can probably send one from Christchurch, up here,” she said, pointing at the city they were approaching. “Or from Wellington, if I drive all night and we catch the first ferry. What’s your choice?”

  
“Wellington might be best,” he decided, looking at the area that they were passing through. “It looks like this place is closed up for the night.”

  
“It probably is, since it’s Monday,” agreed Donna. “Good thing Bernie’s topped off and running light. Do you want to lay down in the back?”

  
“Not yet, Donna,” he chuckled, pleased at her concern. “My Line recovers fast. And talking to you makes me feel better. When did you start riding?”

  
“Oh, when I was just a little girl, really,” she said, warmed by his comment as much as by his question. “I had my first pony when I was five, Shaggy, his name was. Taught me most of what I know about rough riding, I guess, and got me started in Pony Club. I’m twenty-three now, and I got Tim when I was fourteen, and we’ve been together all that time. I never thought I could love anyone more than him, Kit. He’s saved my life more than you have, but he’s been around longer.”

  
“I hope I don’t have to do it again,” he told her in complete candor. “It’s not easy, knowing that it’s you in danger, Donna. I hope Tim doesn’t have to do it, either.”

  
“Just because I’m marrying you doesn’t mean I’ll be staying home raising little Phantoms, you know,” she warned. “You’re only human, so you say, so you must need help every now and then, right?”

  
“My mother was the same way,” he sighed. “Now I know how Dad felt. But she was a better pilot than he was, and a dirtier fighter. I always thought it was normal for them to work together, but his Chronicle told me a lot about the worry and stress he felt when she was with him on a mission.”

  
“Get used to it, Kit,” she told him firmly. “I can be reasonable, to a point. I think that I know my limits, but I have the same worries about you, you know. I had them even when I still thought that you were an immortal.”

  
“Well, there are people like that, immortal, I mean,” he told her. “But they can be killed, if you know how, and they worry about their loved ones, too. None of my Line has ever been one of them, since they can’t have children, but several of them are, uh, friends of the family, so to speak.”

  
“You can kill an immortal?” Donna thought about that. “Then they’re not really immortal, right? How?”

  
“You have to cut off their heads,” he said uncomfortably. “It’s better to let another immortal do it, since they gain power from it. Of course, there’s good ones and bad ones, like normal people. Some have come seeking the Phantom because they thought us one of them. They have a kind of radar for each other that tells them what they are, which doesn’t work on the Phantom, naturally. It usually lets us size them up first, find out who, or what sort, they are.”

  
“They hunt each other?” she said uncertainly. “Like a game, or seriously?”

  
“They call it ‘the Game,’ in fact,” he agreed. “They say that ‘in the end, there can be only one,’ and that that one will rule the world, or at least have the power to do so, if he feels like it. Or she.”

  
“I like your version of immortality better,” she said with feeling. “I don’t know if I want to meet any of them, especially the bad ones.”

  
“Oh, I think you’d like McLeod,” he told her. “He’d appreciate you too much, though, so I’ll only introduce you after the wedding. And maybe Methos. He’s interesting, to say the least, being five thousand years old.”

  
“Don’t be in such a rush, Kit,” she told him, not sure she wanted to meet anyone that old. “I’m planning on having you to myself for just a little while, at least, like a few weeks, a month, two.”

  
“If I can do it,” he agreed, pleased at her words. “But I’m the Phantom. Things happen.”

  
“And I’ll be your wife and tell them to get in line,” she threatened. “Oh, I’ll take what I can get, and try not to complain too much. I can always go talk to Tim.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driving and conversation

“You’ll have more than Tim to talk to,” the big man promised her. “Many of the Bandar speak English quite well. Guran speaks about seven languages fluently, and many of the teachers and doctors, too. I forgot to ask. Do you speak any other languages?”

  
“German, French, a little Japanese, enough to get by as a tourist, a little Italian, some Spanish and Maori,” she told him. “You?”

  
“German, French, Italian, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Maylay, Spanish, Tagalog and most of the jungle tongues,” he said without hesitation. “You’ll pick up Bandar pretty quick, I think. See, I know as little about you as you do about me.”

  
“What’s to know about me?” she said, smiling. “I’m not someone my Mythology professor called ‘one of modern mythology’s unsolved mysteries.’”

  
“I beg your pardon?” said the Phantom, taken aback. “I’m a myth professor’s example?”

  
“You were his obsession,” she corrected. “All the other professors thought he was a dotty old duck, but his students liked him. He was interesting. That’s how I knew anything about you at all.”

  
“Hmm,” mused the Phantom, seeing her amusement by the lights of the dash. “Did you like him?”

  
“Oh, yes, he had a great way of impressing you with his subject. Mythology, he used to say, was a story that you can’t prove anymore. The facts were always there, if you knew how to look He used to take his summer vacations in Bengalla, collecting stories about you.”

  
“Used to?” he asked, hearing the past tense clearly. “What happened to him?”

  
“He retired to Mawitaan,” she said, thinking. “He told us he was going to take up the hunt full time.”

  
“Maybe we should invite him to the wedding,” the Phantom suggested innocently. “Would you like that?”

  
“You want to make up a guest list already?” she asked, surprised. “I don’t even know when you want to have it, or where, or how. Do you have some kind of family tradition, or do you just pick a place and kidnap a minister, what? Do I wear a sarong or a gown, do you wear your costume or a tuxedo, does Daddy have to pay for it, who gives me away, who’s your best man, hundreds of things. My head hurts. This is going to take way too long. I want you now. I’m not sure I can wait until your shoulder heals, let alone until after a wedding.”

  
“When you’re under pressure,” he observed, “you focus like a laser. When you’re relaxed, you think in a dozen different directions at once. Let me tell you about my family’s traditional wedding, but, I warn you, modifications are always made to fit circumstances. A woman may have her say less often in some arenas, but weddings are not one of them. And I don’t ever expect that to apply to you, Donna.”

  
“Right, tell me already,” she demanded. “I never really thought about getting married before.”

  
“Usually,” he told her, a glow of happiness to his voice, “the guests all come to the Deep Woods, or Keela Wee Beach. Most don’t require precautions, but guides are usually provided. A shaman or priest, once a cardinal, I think, and once an emperor, does the job. After the ceremony, whatever rite is used, the couple get congratulated, then go off together. No one bothers them for as long as possible. The guests feast all night long, then eventually go home, as guides become available. The Bandar feast and dance for almost a week, sometimes more. The rest of the jungle is pretty festive, too. Guran tells me that no one was sober for ten days, when my father finally married, for almost a hundred miles. I’m pretty sure he exaggerates.”

  
“What about the brides? Do they need bridesmaids, veils, bouquets? I don’t want to look bad in front of your friends, you know. I don’t even know anyone to invite, really. Except maybe Professor Archer. I’m not sure my parents will survive the shock of the news, let alone the wedding.”

  
“You can make any arrangements that you want, Donna,” he told her. “If you want to get married with an honor guard of Amazons on war elephants, that’s how it’ll be. Can you teach Tim to be the ring bearer?”

  
“Oh, my mother would really drop dead then,” laughed Donna. “I should, just to see her turn purple. Hah! Then you’d match.”

  
“Now, Donna, that’s my future mother-in-law you’re insulting,” he scolded gently. “Why do you say such things about her?”

  
“Oh, she was always so much the lady, wanting me to act grown-up, then to be lady-like, then to be mature,” Donna sighed, disgust in her voice. “It annoyed me so much that I went the opposite way. I mean, I grew up, but she wanted all that pointless drivel with manners and cotillion. So I rode the horses as often as possible, learned gymnastics and fencing, even judo, anything to make me sweaty. It just got to be a sort of clandestine competition, an undeclared war. Too late to stop now.”

  
“Do you want to telephone them first?” he asked, a glimmer of what he had gotten himself into making it through the haze of happy possession and growing exhaustion. “Or just hop a plane and tell them later? I know at least two Phantoms had to steal their wives from a parent, and I think the Nineteenth eloped.”

  
“But still had a jungle wedding?” she asked, beginning to see it in her mind. “I could see getting married in a tropical clearing, maybe a beach, with flowers and color and people who love you. Who do you want to perform the ceremony? Any emperors available?”

  
“How about a newly-elected president?” he asked, imagining Lamanda’s face when he was asked. “Or Colonel Weeks of the Jungle Patrol? No, wait, not him. He’s technically my subordinate. Uh, let’s see, that missionary who runs the hospital, he’s done weddings. He attended my birth, too. Axel, his name is, Dr. Axel.”

  
“Did you say ‘Weeks’?” she asked, suddenly alert. “The detective who asked me about the fire was named ‘Weeks.’ He wanted to know about anything unusual. I thought he was checking out the arsonist’s story, but maybe he was worrying about you, not Tim.”

  
“What did he look like?” asked the Phantom, not particularly concerned. “The Colonel has a nephew who investigates for him sometimes. He’s probably chasing the Firebugs for the same reason I was. They burned down an apartment building that still had people in it.”

  
“Uh, slender, white, youngish, maybe a little older than me, sandy hair, brown eyes, kind of puppy eyes, you know? Polite, kind of Brit accent, rather tan.” She wasn’t sure what else she could tell him, but saw him nod in the light of an oncoming car.

  
“That would be young Kevin,” the Ghost Who Walks told her. “Why do you think he was worried about me, and not Tim?”

  
“He saw us leave the barn,” she told him, worried and not sure why. “At the time, you were draped rather dramatically across Tim’s withers, and there was plenty of light to tell that much, if he was close enough. And if he checks out the hotel room, he’ll know someone was hurt.”

  
“What is he going to do, Donna?” asked the Phantom, amused at her concern. “At worst, he follows you and Tim. Soon enough he finds that you’re travelling with a man. If he calls the head of the Jungle Patrol, he’ll be told to quit, as long as I seem to be alive. He was only a bit worried that I might need help, I think. His uncle has always worried about me, or my father, unduly. It’s partly his responsibility, really.”

  
“What do you mean?” she asked, still worried. The less attention her husband-to-be garnered in this part of the world, the better, after all. He would be a feature story in any paper that heard even a rumor about him, she was sure.

  
“Well, long ago, before real police agencies, the Sixth, I think it was, fought and defeated a well-organized pirate band. He did it without killing any of them, in single combat, and they swore to obey him from then on. They became the first members of the Jungle Patrol, taking orders from the Phantom. The original pirates all became quite respectable, and the Patrol today has no idea how they began. From that day to this, the ostensible head of the agency is the Colonel, but the ultimate head of the Patrol is someone they know only as ‘the Commander.’ They never mention this to outsiders, and only the upper ranks know anything for certain. They suspect that the Phantom is the same as the Commander, but they can’t prove it.”

  
“Why not?” she asked curiously, feeling like Alice. “Don’t you have to sometimes give orders, sign paychecks or something?”

  
“Oh, orders are passed, by various means, sometimes even by meetings, but I’m never seen. The previous Colonel, Horton, knew both my father and grandfather, but Weeks only has suspicions. It wouldn’t be likely to hurt anything for him to know, but like your contest with your mother, it would disappoint him if I stopped. Some generations ago a corrupt Colonel of the Patrol killed one of my ancestors, and to prevent that happening again, no one now is told who their Commander is.”

  
“So this Colonel Weeks’ hobby is trying to link you to his Commander,” she said thoughtfully. “I don’t know, but maybe we should hope he doesn’t get together with Professor Archer.”

  
“I just hope young Kevin doesn’t decide to come to my assistance and get in our way,” he told her. “I like the present arrangement quite well. Just you, me and Tim.”

  
“So do I, Kit,” she sighed happily. “Can you reach the cooler? I think I want a soda. I know you should have one. I want you as fit as possible before I feed you to the parental lions.”

  
“Have you figured out what to tell them yet?” he asked, wondering if he could catch the strap of the cooler. He hooked it with his right pinky and was shortly rewarded with two tepid cans of cola.

  
“Well, I could tell them you’re a law enforcement expert from Bengalla,” she said thoughtfully. “From a very old family, lots of connections, that sort of society malarkey. Mummy would love that. We could tell them you have horses, and that we met at the show, just not how. Of course, by now they know there was a fire, but I wasn’t hurt. We could play up the ‘injured in the fire’ angle, let them think you fell for my Florence Nightingale routine.”

  
“Well, I did,” he said, reaching out to caress her cheek, just because he could. He let his hand trail through her hair, silken and soft. “But there’s so much more to you than that.”

  
“Maybe I’ll get to show you,” she said, capturing his hand with her own. She pulled it gently to her lips and kissed it, tasting it with the tip of her tongue. “You taste pretty good, you know that?”

  
“I thank you for the compliment, Donna,” he laughed, deep and easy. “Just don’t repeat that in Bengalla. Some of the tribes near the Misty Mountains aren’t that far away from their cannibal days, especially the Mussanga.”

  
He popped open one of the colas and handed it to her with his left hand, in spite of the awkwardness of the motions. With a guilty start for monopolizing his good hand, Donna let go and took the can.

  
“Sorry, Kit,” she said, taking a swallow. “How does it feel?”

  
“The shoulder? Stiff, mostly, a little tight. Itchy around the wound, though, which is good. You letting go of my hand? Not so good. Promise me you won’t let go unless I ask.”

  
“Alright, I promise,” she said, smiling at him, a dim, comforting shape in the dark side of the cab. “Every time I look at you I want to hold you close and feel your warmth. I can’t do it right, yet, but you should know I want to, even if I don’t do it. I shouldn’t tell you that, you’ll probably use it against me later.”

  
“Shamelessly, Lady Donna,” he agreed, drinking his own soda half-empty. “But only to my personal advantage. I’ve felt like that since I saw you standing there with a pitchfork and a flashlight against those first three. I begin to think it might have been an even contest.”

  
“If you saw that much, you probably saw me shaking, too,” she told him. “I was ready to run to Tim if they got past my guard. I never even saw you. How did you get there, anyway?”

  
“I rode there in their lorry,” he told her. “Well, on it, really. They parked out of sight down the road, and they got a glimpse of me when I debarked from the roof. All they saw was movement. The man who let off a shot got a tongue lashing from the others. I gave him worse than that, later. I think he was the one with the knife.”

  
“Ah, you were too easy on him,” said Donna, her voice going hard. “A broken neck was too good for him.”

  
“If he’s the one that set the Mawitaan fire, that may be so,” he sighed. “But dead is dead, Donna. He can’t learn better now. Some do, you know.”

  
“Yes, I know,” she said, sorry to have shown him that hard, vengeful part of her that usually stayed hidden. “The shining example of the Jungle Patrol. But you know the Kipling verse about the female of the species?”

  
“Is deadlier than the male,” he completed the phrase. “So my father always said, as well. My mother always just smiled and went right on with what she was doing. My sister only proves it more often.”

  
“Well, sometimes it’s pointless to comment on that sort of thing,” she laughed. “Of course women have to be deadlier. We’re smaller and weaker, with more to protect. Only thing for the smaller and weaker to do is be faster and nastier. Judo taught me that.”

  
“How were you rated?” he asked curiously. “What belt?”

  
“Black. I was twice district champion,” she said, without pride. “But I got trashed in the Nationals, same as in gymnastics and fencing. You rated?”

  
“Not really,” he smiled, enjoying the idea of his Donna in a white judo gi. “My training included all that and more, but the criteria were completely different from competition. With my fencing and gymnastics, and all that, what counted was survival. I use a lot of that every day. Haven’t fenced lately, but I’ll give you a match when we get a chance.”

  
“I’d like that,” she said, with a distinct shiver of pleasure. “I always thought the competition rather tame, nothing like the movies or books.”

  
“The Three Musketeers, and the Count of Monte Cristo,” he said with understanding. “Scaramouche and Captain Blood.”

  
“Errol Flynn and Tyrone Powers,” she agreed, nodding. “Robin Hood and the Mark of Zorro.”

  
“You may live to regret that particular passion,” he chuckled. “My line of work tends to make those things look tame. But I did always like that sort of book.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting for the Ferry to North Island

“What is your favorite book?” she asked, checking her speed slightly. Hitting a sheep on this stretch of road was not unusual. “What kind of music do you like? Do you have a favorite food?”

  
“My favorite books are the Horatio Hornblower series by C. S. Forester,” he told her, swallowing the rest of his soda. “I made the time to see the movie and thought it fair, for Hollywood. They usually make such a mess of books, don’t you think?”

  
“I think it has something to do with California,” she told him seriously. “People there are supposed to be a little different.”

  
“No, I think it’s more of a problem with people who haven’t read the books,” he told her. “Although, Californians are a little odd.”

  
“How about music? Let me guess, jazz, right?” She deliberately chose the only American kind of music she could think of. He was relaxing nicely now, and would probably fall asleep soon. If she could keep him talking about unimportant things, he might get some rest. And she could drive and think without distraction.

  
“Some, but mostly classical,” he said, yawning, then looking a bit surprised. “Maybe I will lay down in the back, Donna. Can we pull over at a rest stop somewhere?”

  
“Sure, Kit,” she said cheerfully, gratified at his good sense. Most men, her father included, would have fallen asleep denying that they were tired. “There’s one up here. Do you need a blanket or pillow or anything?”

  
“Not as long as it stays this warm, Donna,” he told her, remembering how often he had slept in far less comfortable conditions. That time in Brazil, the swamp in Ivory-Lana, the list was endless.

  
She pulled off at a turnout, probably used to load sheep, and stopped gently, mindful of Tim. Putting on the brake, she stepped out of the car to come around to his side. Tim could be heard munching his hay, unconcerned.

  
“Give me the cooler and get out,” she commanded. “You won’t be able to get in back without moving the seat.”

  
He obeyed, the domelight making highlights of gold in his dark, wavy hair. She took the cooler and watched him climb out of her awkward vehicle to the ground with far more grace than she could have managed. She set down the cooler and levered up the seat so that he could get into the hypothetical back seat. She had earlier spread out any soft stuff she had, and stashed hard pieces in the trailer or on the floor. The prize of her packrat’s nest was a sheepskin meant for a saddle pad. It would pad his back, or head, as well, she thought to herself.

  
“This is rather cozy,” he commented, as she put the seat back and stowed the cooler in the space where his feet had once been. “Had this in mind all along, didn’t you?”

  
She only grinned in reply, visible in the light, and shut the door. After hauling herself up into her seat again, she leaned over to kiss him briefly, before getting back on the road. She was able to catch glimpses of him settling down, and soon his breathing eased into sleep. He did not, as she already knew, snore.

  
Alone with her thoughts, Donna drove north to Blenheim, the point at which the ferry between the North and South islands docked. Dawn was just breaking as she pulled into the terminal parking lot. The engine dying woke her passenger from his long nap, as none of her stops, turns or potholes had.

  
“Where are we?” he asked, sliding on his sunglasses. “The ferry?”

  
“Yep. I’m going in to get tickets. Do you want me to see if the telegraph is open?” She was tired, but still found him a stimulating sight. “Or get breakfast?”

  
“Yes to both,” he told her, yawning. “Let me out, will you, please? I need to stretch, well, most of me does. I promise not to rip out your stitches.”

  
“Alright. Come out my side, then. I’ll leave the keys with you, in case you need to lock up. I’ve got another set in my purse.” She jumped out of the way and flipped back the seat, watching her lover squirm around to get out. When he had finally got to the ground, he received a gentle, sensuous squeeze, and returned her affection with a kiss, both of them tasting faintly of old cola, but hardly noticing. A passing dockworker nudged his companion and grinned as they walked by.

  
“Ah, now I’m awake,” he told her, holding her close. She could see herself in his sunglasses, disheveled but smiling. “I’ll just come with you, if you don’t mind.”

  
“Right,” she said dreamily. “Let me lock up Bernie.” She took his good arm in hers and no one who saw them had any doubt as to their relationship. The offices of the ferry line were not really open yet, but the early manager, a horseman himself, helped Donna get a slot on the first ferry out. He’d heard about the barn fire, and commiserated over the loss of her gear as he processed the tickets.

  
“Thanks ever so,” Donna told him, writing out her check. “Do you know if we can send a wire from here, or must we wait until we get to Wellington? I need to get hold of someone in Bengalla about shipping my horse by air.”

  
“Well, that’s Charlie, over there by the catwalk,” the manager, a slender man of late middle age told her. “He’s the man who runs the telegraph and wireless on nights. He’s not off yet, but no one has a lot of work at this hour but the yardies.”

  
“Thanks again,” said Donna, her tickets in hand. “Good luck with your mare next Sunday.”

  
“Thank you, Miss,” said the older man, reflecting that the two of them made a handsome young couple.

  
Charlie proved to be quite willing to send a telegram to Bengalla, but suggested that a radio telephone call might work better.

  
“Well, not where I need it sent,” the Phantom told the older man, who looked to have seen service during the Second World War. “Last I looked, Mawitaan Airport only had one phone. And Baker Air Freight only has a radio at their hanger. I mean to send a telegram to Mawitaan and they’ll send a runner out to Sam Baker and he’ll send back a reply. I know it’s not very efficient, but it’s Bengalla.”

  
“I see your point, sir,” said the oldster, shaking his head. “Did things that way in Burma during the War. Well, tell me what wants sending, and I’ll get it right off.”

  
He passed the Ghost Who Walks a form to fill out and went to check his equipment. Donna read over his shoulder as he wrote, a firm, bold hand, much as she might have expected from him. The address was minimal, but the New Zealander supposed that it was a fairly well known place, needing little elaborate directions to find. The message read ‘Need transport of one horse and two passengers from Auckland to Bengalla soonest. Reply requested. Walker.’

  
“Soonest?” asked Donna, her body half-leaning on him as he finished. “Are we in a hurry? It’ll take another day or two to get to my parent’s.”

  
“If I don’t use that wording, Sam Baker will be more likely to show up in his old fighter plane than his bomber,” the Phantom told her, enjoying her presence at his side. “Or in two weeks, depending on the wording. He’s a friend.”

  
“A wedding guest, then,” yawned Donna. “I need to make a list. I also need tea, maybe coffee for you, if you want it. Charlie, is there a diner or anything with tea and breakfast nearby? And where can I borrow a bucket to water my horse, do you think?”

  
“Oh, Nellie’s is open down at the end of the terminal,” said Charlie, taking the slip from the Phantom. An American fifty dollar bill was under it. “And I’m sure I can find you a bucket, Miss. I’m not able to change such a large bill, young fellow.”

  
“It’s the smallest I have,” the tall man told him. “You keep it. We’ll stop by before the ferry leaves to see if there’s a reply. Thanks for your help.”

  
“Well, thank you,” said the stooped little man, surprised. “Wait, here. I got a new plastic garbage tin here I haven’t used yet. Like the tin one, I do. You use it for your horse, eh?”

  
He handed them a tan-colored rubberized trash bin, rectangular in shape, and turned to his work, whistling softly.

  
“Now, Donna, what do you want first?” he asked her as they left the terminal’s glass doors. “Breakfast or Tim?”

  
“Tim,” she said without hesitation, hefting the ‘bucket.’ “I think there’s a tap in that bit of shrubbery we’re parked near. Be a dear and get the trailer open, will you?”

  
Sure enough, the water filled the bucket quite nicely, and she put it down on the macadam with only a little sloshing. The Phantom had little trouble with the spring-loaded ramp, easing it down quietly. The big bay, not tied, watched calmly as the butt bar was unpinned, then backed out as if he had done it a thousand times. Which, the man in the sunglasses reflected, he probably had. The manger was empty, and as the gelding drank, Donna put another flake of alfalfa hay in it, before retwisting the wires of her shrinking bale.

  
His muzzle dripping, darkened by the water, Tim stood watching his human as she worked, ears flicking at the early morning activity. The Phantom patted the dusty neck, and the horse put his head down to drink again, trusting his human to keep things in proper perspective. His food first, everything else later. No one had yet touched the lead line that lay over his broad back.

  
Donna left the tailgate open and stretched her back, then brushed at the hay on her coat. She spotted the diner Charlie had told them of, and pointed it out to her fiancée.

  
“Two hours, or so, ‘til the ferry leaves, Kit. Something to feed the cat? I mean, do you want breakfast? What we say in my family, you see.” The horse seemed to be sated for the moment, so she took his lead in her hand. “Maybe some French toast, or pancakes?”

  
“I am famished,” he admitted. “Are you buying, or do I slip ‘em another fifty?”

  
“I’m buying,” she asserted. “I have plenty of cash left, at least to last us to Wellington. More than enough to buy breakfast.”

  
“Is Tim coming, too?” he asked as she took his arm again and headed him toward the diner. The bay followed placidly, his hooves ringing on the parking lot.

  
“Not inside,” she assured him. “He can at least walk over and back a few times, though. He does love sweetbreads, so watch out.”

  
“Why should I watch out?” he said, when suddenly the bay’s head came up and his ears pricked. With nostrils expanded, the horse took a deep breath and licked his lips. He gave a piteous little whimper, and nosed Donna’s shoulder, pushing her toward the doorway.

  
“Because he’ll do anything to get a muffin or a biscuit or a cruller. Cake is ecstasy,” she grunted as she was nosed again, harder. “Go in and order, Kit, I’ll take him back. They must have fresh breads today.”

  
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” he heard her scold the horse as she led him reluctantly back to the trailer. She tied him to the side near his water and trotted back to her waiting fiancee.

  
“I’d rather wait for you,” he told her, as she raised an eyebrow in question. “You’re buying, remember?”

  
“But you’re doing the eating,” she pointed out later, as two orders of breakfast steak and eggs had disappeared into him, as well as three glasses of orange juice, a cup of coffee, and a glass of milk. Donna had eaten her French toast, carefully saving one of the four pieces for Tim. The Phantom had left two blueberry muffins untouched, planning, he confided, to bribe his way into the gelding’s affections.

  
“That’ll work,” Donna conceded. “Way to a horse’s heart. And to a man’s, according to my mother.”

  
“I wouldn’t know about that,” he said, sitting back, his concealed eyes missing nothing around them. “I’ve never had any of your cooking. Do you cook? It won’t be necessary, if you don’t.”

  
“Well, I can follow a recipe,” she said slowly, feeling tired and happy. “Or I can make food. I don’t know as I’d call it cooking.”

  
“If you can eat it,” he said in mock judgement, “it’s cooking. If you can’t eat it, it’s ruined. So my mother used to say.”

  
“Well, let me pay the bill, and you go butter up Tim,” she laughed. “No fair telling him it’s all from you. He’ll do his best to make me feel guilty, as it is.”

  
She noticed, as she walked toward the trailer, that the bay was quite willing to do his tricks for her fiancée, as long as a piece of muffin rewarded him. By now a few early travelers, mostly truckers and farmers, were waiting for the ferry. This was the waiting area for vehicles, and some were watching the bay and Kit, who had untied the horse from the trailer.

  
“Seems he knows ‘shake hands,’ ‘yes’ and ‘no,’” the big man reported as she came near enough to talk without shouting. “What else? I’ve still got another muffin and your French toast.”

  
“Tim, come,” she called, and the horse went to her eagerly. “Lie down.” The horse promptly collapsed on the tarmac, to exclamations of dismay from several truckers. “Roll over,” she commanded and he flipped to his opposite side at once. “Get up,” brought him erect, ears alertly on her. “Heel,” she said, and he paced her like a dog, rewarded with her french toast, and a smattering of applause. She faced him toward their impromptu audience and had him bow and wave, then sit. This got him the remaining muffin, and more applause. Content, he savored his treat with half-closed eyes and much licking of his lips.

  
“How’d you come to teach him all that?” asked her fiance, patting the now-standing horse’s flank. “Not much use for that in the show ring.”

  
“Well, about six or seven years ago, I broke my hand and wrist,” she told him, wishing for a single brush for the dusty hide she leaned on. “Took a dismount in gymnastics wrong. Couldn’t ride him, he got lonely, I got bored, so for two weeks, until I could use the arm a little and get on, we learned tricks. He knows others, some more useful, but I’d rather not show you here. This stuff is slippery with steel shoes on.”

  
“True,” he admitted, having heard several slips during the bay’s performance. “Do you want to take a short nap, Donna? You drove all night, you must be tired. I’ll wake you when we need to get on.”

  
“I would like to get a few winks,” she agreed, yawning. “Don’t forget to check with Charlie. Somewhere near Waikanae or Otaki we should be able to let Tim out for a bit. He needs to stretch a bit himself.”

  
“I won’t forget, dear lady,” he said, bending his head to kiss her nose. He watched her climb into her ‘Bernie’ and glanced at the big clock over the terminal entry. He spent a few more moments with the horse, then peeked into the back window of the Range Rover. Dona was curled up like a kitten before a fire, nested into the hodgepodge of bedding he had so recently vacated. He smiled to himself and carefully moved his left hand in the motions needed to shift the vehicle into various gears. He’d wake her when she woke up, he thought, feeling little pain from the wound. He tied the horse to the trailer again, calculating the time his telegram would take to reach its destination and return, if Sam Baker, or his hellion daughter, were between jobs.

  
He walked back into the terminal, noting exchange rates of various currencies on the BNZ board as he passed. He stood where he could watch the clock without seeming to, then sauntered over to the desk behind which Charlie was just being relieved. He smiled at the old man and the sleepy-looking girl who was taking his place. She came awake quickly on seeing him, but the bell on their machine chimed at that moment. She darted into the small alcove to collect the printout, while the night man raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  
“I believe you have my reply?” he asked politely, even as the very blond girl asked, “Who’s Walker?”

  
“Your timing is excellent, young fellow,” the veteran told him, taking the yellow copy for his records, and curiosity, and handing the dark-haired giant the white reply page. “You must have done this before.”

  
“A few times,” the man in the dark glasses told him. “Where can I pick up a map for the North Island?”

  
“Why, they got free ones all over the ferry, and some right over there on that rack. Doesn’t your young lady live up there?

  
“ Yes, but I like maps,” the Phantom told him, reading the reply and smiling. “Thanks.”

  
“Anytime, Mr. Walker,” the older man told him, putting on his hat and preparing to leave. “My regards to your Mrs., and to her horse.”

  
The reply had read simply ‘Will be waiting. Baker.’


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driving north thru New Zealand still, but now on the North Island

Famished and refreshed, Donna awoke as they drove over a cattle grate. She stretched and bumped her knee on the back of the driver’s seat.

  
“Awake, finally?” asked a voice she could feel in her bones. “Did you enjoy your nap?”

  
“You’re driving!” she exclaimed, sitting up suddenly, her eyes wide. “Where are we?”

  
“Just past Levin,” he told her, keeping an eye out for someplace to stop and let Tim out. “You were sleeping so soundly that I couldn’t make myself wake you. Don’t worry, I had the medic on the ferry look at the shoulder. He said it looked like I’d been sewn up by a vet, but that it was alright.”

  
“Well, that’s all I’ve ever watched put in stitches,” Donna yawned. “Naturally, it looked that way. Does it bother you at all?”

  
“Not really,” he said, telling himself that it didn’t bother him, not now. “Once you’re in gear, it’s just steering, mostly. Feel like something to eat or drink?”

  
“How long have I been sleeping?” she asked, peering over his shoulder at the petrol level. “And what time is it?”

  
“Almost one, local time, and you’ve slept for six hours or so,” he told her, pulling a cold can of soda from the cooler on the passenger seat. It involved stretching his shoulder, so he went fairly carefully. “I changed some currency on the ferry and got gasoline and supplies in Wellington. I’m afraid there aren’t many saddlery stores there.”

  
She took the soda while watching him carefully for any sign of pain. Relieved to see none that were too obvious, she leaned over the seat to peer into the open ice-box. Several waxed paper wrapped sandwiches were sitting on top of the sodas. She took one and closed the lid. It didn’t seem a good idea to give him one, and there was a wrapper on the floor already.

  
“Do you need a lot of area for Tim?” he asked, glad that she’d not noticed his, not pain, he told himself, discomfort. Or that she hadn’t been angry with him for taking over the job of guardian angel. It had been quite odd being the one cared for, rather than the one doing the protecting.

  
“Oh, not really,” she said, unwrapping her sandwich and sitting back where she could see him as he drove. He thought he was fooling her, she saw, and smiled as she ate, but she had seen his slight wince, the deliberate movements. “Just a little field or cow path. I just want to let him run a bit, maybe get a drink, clean out his box. Someplace with a washroom would be nice.”

  
“How about that meadow up ahead?” he asked, slowing. “I don’t see a washroom, but that looks like a nice stream.” She mumbled assent through her sandwich, not missing the minute flinch as he geared down with old Bernie’s uncompromising shift lever. By the time they had stopped, found a gate and off-loaded Tim, Donna had finished both sandwich and soda, found her toothbrush and hairbrush, and used them. When Tim went bounding out into the meadow, running and kicking, Donna disappeared into the brush briefly. In turn, so did the Phantom, returning with his maroon sweater in hand. Tim was no longer in sight.

  
“Is he lost?” asked the big man, worried. “Do we chase him?”

  
“No, he’s just stretching a little,” said Donna, feeling much more presentable. She had never worried about how she looked to a man before. “He’ll come back soon, or if I whistle. See, here he comes.”

  
The big bay came charging down a hill toward them, only to veer off and put on a display of bucking and rearing. He capered to a halt in front of them, inviting them to play with him. His ears were pricked, his nostrils flared, and he looked as if he might break into equine song at any moment. Donna could tell he wanted some fun.

  
“You’ve seen me ride,” the New Zealander said, clipping the lead to the bay’s halter. “Do you feel up to doing some yourself?”

  
“Are you sure you want me to ride your horse?” he asked, rubbing the gelding’s nose. She noted that he hadn’t answered her question. Evading by returning fire, question for question, she thought.

  
“Kit, I love you,” she told him seriously, turning him with a hand on his arm. “I will share my life, my blood, my sweat, my body and my horse with you. I know Tim won’t hurt you, just as I know that you still hurt. I just want to see you ride without me holding you onto his back. If you don’t think you want to, or if you’re not strong enough, just tell me. I’d rather not have to guess, that’s all.”

  
“Greater love hath no woman than to share her horse with a man,” he teased. “Maybe just a short ride. Has he had a drink yet?”

  
“No, he’s still playing,” she said, smiling, for what he had said was true, for her.

  
“Shall I brush him, or do you want to?” he asked, opening the tack compartment. To her astonished delight, he produced a shiny aluminum bucket full of various horse tools. He selected a nice soft dandy brush and was approaching Tim with it, when she caught him in a fierce hug.

  
“Oh, you are the nicest man I ever fell in love with,” she exclaimed, stretching to take the brush from him. She pulled his head down to her own and kissed him firmly, then spun away to brush her horse. He stared at her for a moment, and picked another brush out, starting on Tim’s other side.

  
“I think I could come to resent you,” he told the gelding thoughtfully, smoothing dust off of the shiny red-brown shoulder. “She still likes you better, I think.”

  
“Nay,” said a deep, horsey voice from the other side of the bay shoulder. “Just been ‘round longer.”

  
“So what do you suggest?” he asked, playing along. The bay was stretching his upper lip in pleasure at having two humans brush him, attention he had always loved.

  
“Ride good, kiss ‘er lots,” Donna said in her best Mr. Ed voice. “Feed me cake!”

  
“Hmm,” said the Phantom, grinning at Donna’s imitative abilities, as well as her ‘suggestion.’ “Good advice, Tim. I’ll take it.” The lead rope lay across the bay’s neck, and with a quick swing of his powerful body, the man was on the broad back. Donna looked up at him with admiration and concern in her eyes. He tossed her the brush he still held and gathered up the halter rope.

  
“Be back in a minute,” he told her, the smile dazzling in the sun. He rode the bay easily, his seat never threatened. With only a loose contact with Tim’s head, the gelding was free to take his own path, with no forcing from the man on his back. Donna was well pleased with both of them, and with the world in general, for he rode at least as well as she did herself, if not in a strictly classical fashion. Tim was obedient to his leg, voice and seat, and eventually waded into the stream near Donna to drink, the Phantom still on his back.

  
“He has nice gaits,” the big man commented to her as she stood watching them. Her happy smile made him feel warm in the summer afternoon, at ease with the world and its creatures. “What’s his breeding?”

  
“Just thoroughbred,” she said, pleased at the compliment to her horse. “He was bred to race, but he didn’t like it. He’s fast enough, but he’d rather do other things than just run.”

  
The big horse finished drinking and took a few mouthfuls of grass before climbing out of the streambed. The man in the tight-fitting T-shirt slid from the horse’s back to the ground, and took his future wife in his arms in one smooth movement. Her arms slid eagerly around his waist and they seemed to melt together in a kiss that soon bored the gelding. He stamped a hoof politely, then began to crop grass, raising his head to stare at them while he chewed his mouthful.

  
Eventually, glazed of eye, breathing hard, Dona felt her knees turning to jelly, and reluctantly ended that kiss, burying her face instead on his good shoulder. He held her close, his distinctly masculine scent like perfume to her. One hand, the left, stroked her hair and back, his head bent to kiss the top of her head.

  
“I think we’ll stop at an inn, or something, tonight,” he told her softly, reveling in the feeling of her in his arms. The slight pain in his injuries was far outweighed by the delights of her body against his, soft and pliant. “We could both use a shower and a bed, and Tim needs to have a break, too.”

  
“Mmm,” sighed Donna, getting her knees under control. “Anything you say, O Ghost Who Walks. God, you smell wonderful. Why do I feel so weak and indecisive when you hold me? I want to kiss you forever, but my legs go to sleep, or something. And I don’t want to just kiss you. If we couldn’t be seen from the road so easily, I might do something, uh, embarrassing.”

  
“Later, Donna,” he told her, immensely please at her words. “Somewhere Tim can’t watch and decide to help.” She laughed shakily at that and pointed the horse back into the trailer. He went in as before, and Donna closed the doors, opened the gate for the Phantom to drive through, then closed it and got in the passenger side, having to put the cooler in the back first. It felt odd, watching someone else drive Bernie, but it was right that it was this man.

  
“Which road are we taking?” she asked, still a little fluttery in her stomach. “Not that it matters much.”

  
“I thought we might go up past Fielding and Taihape,” he said, passing her one of his maps. “Did I say that right?”

  
“Probably,” she answered, seeing the route he meant. It wasn’t one she often took, as most of the bigger shows and events stuck to the coast, where there were more people. “That should be fun. Do you think we can make Taihape today?”

  
“We’ll stop when we feel like it, dear lady,” he told her as she returned the map. “Baker Air Freight will be in Auckland waiting for us whenever we get there. Do your parents live north or south of the city?”

  
“South,” she said, watching the scenery idly. The area was mostly cattle range, some sheep, and the road followed the railroad closely. “We can stop in Papakura, say ‘hi,’ grab a few things and head for the airport. We might even have time to revive my mother from her faint, and find Tim a new saddle.”

  
“If we stop tonight at Taihape,” he said thoughtfully, “we can probably make it that far by tomorrow night. At least, if we get an early start. Are you sure you don’t want to phone them before we get there?”

  
“No. If I do, I’ll have to say that I’m bringing someone for them to meet. Bells and sirens will go off in my mother’s head, and after she finds out that you’re not a horse, she’ll have what amounts to a cross between a royal reception and the Spanish Inquisition ready for us. All of her friends, and probably Daddy’s, will be there to ogle you and find fault, and pry into your financial history as rude as you please.”

  
She sighed in mock martyrdom.

  
“How do you know?” he asked, amused at her desire to protect him from what she obviously dreaded. “Couldn’t you just tell her you want to show me off in private?”

  
“I know because it’s happened before,” she told him, grinning at her memories. “I brought a friend of mine up from Wellington, he’d been on the circuit and had to go to Bay of Islands on a family emergency. By the time we got to my house, my mother was composing shower invitations. And he’s happily married to another friend of mine, and was at the time.”

  
“Well, I don’t mind that kind of inquisition, if it would make your parents happy,” he told her. “I just don’t say much. Vague references are acceptable for business and finance, and there are accounts all over the world to back up financial things. I’m afraid they won’t be able to say that you married into a poor family, only a strange one.”

  
“You mean you’re rich?” she asked, puzzled. “You don’t get paid for this, do you?”

  
“No, but over the centuries, many people have been grateful to the Phantom for various reasons. Many of those who were rich or powerful showed their gratitude with material gifts. When I was little, I used to play in a room full of gold, jewelry, gemstones and other minor treasures. I built castles out of gold coins and made moats for them with sapphires. My mother would scold me for not putting things back, but that room has always been a glittery mess.”

  
“Wow,” said Donna, her eyes wide. “I guess you had a rather unique set of building blocks. Why do you call them ‘minor’ treasures?”

  
“Because the real treasures, housed in the Major Treasure Room, are things of historical or religious significance, things that belong in museums,” he told her. “I’d get more than scolded if I treated those as toys.”

  
“What kind of things?” she asked, fascinated.

  
“The actual sword of Arthur, Excalibur,” he told her. “A rug woven by Haroun Al-Raschid, the horn that belonged to Roland, a diamond cup that was Alexander’s. You’d like that room, I think.”

  
“It does sound wonderful,” she admitted. “I’ve always loved museums. Have you ever been to the British Museum, or the Smithsonian?”

  
“Several times,” he said, laughing. “I’m afraid they don’t like me much at the British Museum right now. I had to prove one of their exhibits was a forgery before I could catch the thief. They were not amused.”

  
“Oh, I read about that, didn’t I?” she exclaimed. “The Franz Hals painting, wasn’t it?”

  
“That was one, yes. There were others, but that was a major exhibit,” he said. She thought fondly that he needed a shave, the sun glinting off the tiny hairs like a halo. “Did they mention me in the papers?”

  
“No, only anonymous sources, that sort of rubbish,” she told him, thinking a halo appropriate for him.

  
“Good,” he said in satisfaction. “I warned them not to, but there are often leaks about things like that.”

  
“It would have made a good story for the papers,” she pointed out. “But the Museum was embarrassed enough, I guess, to keep quiet.”

  
“They didn’t know the whole story, and I didn’t tell them,” he said, smiling faintly. “If I had, someone would have let it out. That’s one of the reasons I use Sam Baker when I need air support. He and his daughter may be wild blue yonder pilots, but they can keep a secret better than any priest. I’ve helped them, they’ve helped me, the way it usually is in Bengalla.”

  
“Who are they and how did you meet?” she asked, getting out another pair of sodas.

  
“Sam Baker flew during World War Two,” he told her. “He met my father in Burma when his plane was shot down. Dad dragged him out of the jungle and forgot about him, mostly, but Sam Baker never forgot Dad. Sam bought up a lot of old surplus warplanes after the war, and set up shop in Mawitaan. His favorite is a fully operational fighter, a two-seater, but he also has two bombers and a cargo plane that he makes his living with. He married a nurse he met in Burma and they have a daughter, you’d like her, who flew solo at ten and is his best pilot. He happened to pick Dad up out of the wreckage of a Nazi sub once, with one of his sea planes, and they were both pretty surprised, I guess. Dad rescued Sam’s wife and baby girl from kidnappers once, and Sam used his old fighter to get Dad off an island just before it blew up. That sort of thing.”

  
“I am never going to be bored again,” Donna told him, luxuriating in a stretch. “I am going to be very happy and very interested in everything from now on. Why did the island blow up?”

  
“Dad set explosive charges on it to keep some modern pirates from using it as a base again,” he told her casually. “They’d been raiding local shipping in the Singapore area. There’ve always been pirates in that area, Malaysian, Indonesian, Chinese. Too many islands, too many easy targets, too much in the way of handy weapons.”

  
“And you know them, too?” she asked. “The Bakers, I mean. What have you done with them? All that other stuff was your father.”

  
“Last time it was, um, drug smugglers in Thailand that were trying to get Mandy, Sam’s daughter, to fly their load into Hong Kong. I helped her escape and Sam dropped an old five hundred pound bomb on the fire I’d set in their laboratory. Made quite a hole, and I’m afraid Mandy has a little bit of a crush on me.”

  
“Do I need to worry?” asked Donna, feeling a flash of jealousy. “I mean, is she going to resent me?”

  
“I’m not sure how she’ll react,” he admitted, uncomfortable with the thought. “She’s only seventeen, you know, and I practically watched her grow up. Not that she knows that, she never saw me. And she’s got a serious temper. Sam’s wife was the sweetest lady you could ever meet, tiny and delicate, reminded you of china teacups. Sam’s this big, quiet man, like a happy bear. Mandy is like a stick of dynamite, small, but explodes easily. Causes trouble without a thought, then stirs it up like a cook at a stove. Enjoys it, I’m sure. I’m also sure that’s half the reason she likes me.”

  
“She figures you’re as much a firestarter as she is?” asked Donna with a smile for his descriptions. “I already know the other half of the reason, Kit. You’re right, I’ll probably like her, if she keeps her hands off of your luscious carcass. She does have good taste. Does she know you and your father aren’t, weren’t, well, the same man? Oh, that’s complicated, isn’t it? I mean, does she think that you’re four hundred years old, like I did?”

  
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “She might, but she didn’t say so. She didn’t do anything, really, I guess, so I could be wrong about the crush. She just stared at me with a kind of funny look, you see. She’d do what had to be done to the plane and go back to staring. It was, um, unnerving.”

  
“And you couldn’t very well tell her to stop, or even notice,” guessed Donna, giggling a bit. “Of course she had a crush on you, Kit. Rescued her, and I presume her airplane, from probable death, or worse, and really good-looking to boot. Doesn’t hurt that you’re mysterious and possibly dangerous, but a gentleman at the same time. I’ll need to watch out for poison, or a knife, until we get to be friends.”

  
“She’d be more likely to challenge you to a fight,” he said, considering the idea with some alarm. “Sam’s had her trained in the martial arts since she was a child, since her kidnapping, in fact. She’s very good. I didn’t do all that much rescuing.”

  
“I’ve got to meet her,” Donna decided. “We can at least compare notes on your behavior and methods. On the other hand, her mother was a nurse, you said. Maybe she could have done a better job on your shoulder.”

  
“Mandy Baker is not the kind who attends to the wounded,” laughed the Phantom. “She’s the kind who steps back to admire the effect of her work, both the trouble-causing and the injuries.”

  
“That’s fine, lover,” said Donna with some satisfaction. “I’ll be there to keep you from needing any more patching. She does sound as if she’s a good man in a fight. So to speak.”

  
“And wherever she is, there’s usually a fight,” he agreed. “Not generally in the air, but sometimes. Heloise is good friends with her.”

  
“Tell me about your sister,” requested Donna curiously. “Does she, well, hero the way you do?”

  
“There is only one Phantom,” he said thoughtfully. “But given the need, she could do the job as well as I. She rides and shoots better than I do, could give a Shao-Lin master martial arts lessons, and could have stitched up my shoulder while putting out the barn fire. She’s always been my target, either physically or scholastically. We came out two minutes apart, me last, and she’s been two minutes ahead of me ever since.”

  
“I’ve always wanted a brother,” commented Donna. “My friends always told me I was lucky to be an only child. I hadn’t considered the rivalry angle. It must have been frustrating for you both. What does she do, then?”

  
“She runs an international investigation service,” he told her. “Detectives, informants, even spies work for her, and she has clients who are certain she’s somehow psychic. Of course, she and I help each other when we can. It’s useful to be able to research the Chronicles, though she knows most of them by heart, I think. And I may need some information on someone that she can get. Her company is called Altair, Incorporated.”

  
“Sounds like a technology firm,” Donna commented. “You know, transistors and radio-controlled aircraft. Maybe they build rockets. A respectable name, you know?”

  
“So she said,” the big man agreed. “And she’s doing that, too. She says computers are the future. Plans on putting all the knowledge in the library on a computer someday. I think it’ll be harder to replace books than she thinks.”

  
“Will she be at the wedding?” asked Donna, intrigued. “I know some people, like Daddy, can’t always get away for that long.”

  
“She’ll be there,” the Phantom told her with certainty. “Your mother’s third degree will be nothing to Heloise’s. My twin has an overly developed sense of responsibility, at least as regards the Line. She’s been throwing dossiers on ‘likely’ young women at me for the last five years. It’s not that she doesn’t trust me to continue the Line, but she wants to, uh, improve the, um, bloodstock, sort of.”

  
“Perfectly reasonable,” Donna nodded, amused at his hemming and hawing. “Your family has been engaged in a selective breeding program of sorts for over four hundred years. Not a terribly scientific one, but that’s what it is. I’ll bet none of your ancestors went for the tame, compliant housewife type, or the gentle, fainting maiden. You’ve bred for courage, reflexes, determination, strength and intelligence, and only another like that can reinforce the genes. Quite simple, logical, reasonable.”

  
“You make it sound so, calculated,” he protested. “As if love had nothing to do with it.”

  
“Love has everything to do with it,” she countered. “The right woman for your kind of man has too much sense to fall for anyone foolish, and the strength of will to enforce that decision. Women think about these things differently than men, Kit. It’s our bodies that produce life, we need to think about it more than men.”

  
“Can we just say I’m madly in love with you and leave it at that?” he asked plaintively. “I don’t want to think about children until after the wedding, if it’s alright with you. Just concentrating on you is all my heart can stand right now. I know there will be children, there have to be, but all I can seem to think or feel involves you. It was very odd, you know.”

  
“What do you mean?” she murmured, touched to near tears to hear such admissions of vulnerability and devotion. It was more endearing to her than his unmasking himself for her.

  
“When I came to New Zealand, I was hunting those arsonists. I was angry with them, in a kind of intellectual way, for killing all those people in the fire. After the first night we spent together, all I could think about was how they threatened you. How they would make you unhappy if they hurt Tim, or how it would feel if they hurt you. That part, well, I don’t remember ever being that afraid of anything before.” He was quiet as he spoke, looking inside of himself, as well as driving with cool competence.

  
“Don’t be afraid for me, Kit,” Donna told him softly, reaching out to stroke his hair. “I haven’t been afraid for me since I met you. I’ve feared for Tim, a little, but mostly for you. Does that mean our love is the same? Is that what love is? Fear for your lover, rather than yourself? You know, the ancient Romans considered love a bad thing, because it could make you sick, or do stupid things. They even had doctors to treat it. Now, I’ve been both more terrified and happier in the last few days than ever before in my life, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. The fear is still there, since I know what you do, but the joy when you tell me that you love me is enough to make me face the fear gladly.”

  
“Then I’ll have to remember to tell you often,” he said, rubbing his eyes beneath the sunglasses. The white T-shirt was free of blood, to Donna’s keen eyes, so she moved over to rest her arm across his broad shoulders and her head against his. “And I do think I like this driving position better.”

  
“So do I, Kit,” she said, brushing her lips against his cheek, stubble and all. “But if it hurts, or you get stiff, I want to know about it. I have plans for you tonight that do not include pain and horse liniment.”

  
“Really?” he teased, stroking her thigh with his left hand, feeling the smooth, taut flesh tremble beneath the cloth. “Before the wedding? How very modern of you.”

  
“Kit, we’ve already literally slept together every night since we met,” she said, concentrating on the feel of him on her body. “It was just none of it fun-and-games sleeping together. I want to get clean, get you clean, make sure you won’t spring a leak somewhere and really sleep with you. In my arms, face to face, before something else happens to interfere or hurt you again. I selfishly want at least one night of you to myself. Before my parents’ house and a long plane flight to Bengalla, during which Mandy Baker may try to keep you for herself.”

  
“Donna,” he told her, his voice deep with emotion, making her insides quiver with the vibrations of it, “Mandy Baker is not the woman I love. You are. If that’s what you want, that’s what will happen, if I can possibly arrange it.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally some sex. And I know I'm not good at writing sex scenes. Suggestions?

They drove on in deeply contented silence for almost an hour after that, speaking only the language of touch and caress. Donna fell asleep for a few moments, coming awake with a jerk that made the Phantom wince. He hoped she hadn’t noticed it, since he was stiff, he found.

“I’m not sure I’m going to be good for much tonight,” she said muzzily. “Maybe we should just stop at the next likely looking place, get a room and a meal and let our schedule go to hell.”

“Actually, we’re pretty close to Taihape,” he said, easing the shoulder a little. “Does that rhyme with ‘die happy?’”

“It might for me,” she said, kissing him briefly, and sitting up. “I wonder what kind of food we can find you?”

“Me?” he said in mock amazement. “I thought you’d only care what you fed Tim. That’ll have to be how we choose our motel, don’t you think? Where they’ll keep Tim?”

“Of course not,” she said, opening the glove box. To his silent amusement, it actually had gloves in it, as well as other things. “The Horseman’s Travel Guide says that there are two motels that have stabling, and three actual hotels. Oh, wait, make that one. Those two are behind us. And a bed-and-breakfast.”

“Do we just stop at the first one, or look ‘em over first?” the big man asked, his sunglasses resolutely on the road, though the eyes behind them missed none of what happened in and around Bernie.

“No, I have friends who say this one, the Taihape Arms Hotel, is very good. Paddocks behind the parking area for horses, and big rooms. Noelle said the parking area had a drive through turnaround, so no backing up. I don’t want to waste time doing that if I don’t have to. I wonder if there’s a restaurant nearby?”

“Maybe room service, if you’re tired,” he suggested, slowing as they began to get into inhabited territory. Brightly painted houses and fruit stands gave way to small, neat farm supply places, and soon other businesses. With directions from the guide booklet, they easily found the hotel. It was no grander or meaner than any other hotel, but the people there understood horses. In less than an hour, quite fast for horse related activities, Tim was stabled in a paddock-and-stall behind their room. The trailer and Bernie were parked and unloaded with the help of the stable girl and bellhop, named Cathy, who wanted to know all about the fire. In spite of her curiosity, the girl was well trained in the family trade, and soon they were alone in a comfortable room with a large double bed and a bathroom that looked like heaven to Donna.

“Kit,” she said seriously, as the hall door clicked shut, “I’m going to use the bathroom first. If you try to stop me, I may have to hurt you.”

“I would never stand in your way, Lady Donna,” he told her, bowing and scraping in an elaborately foppish manner. “Take all the time you like. I’m going down to see what’s on the menu at their grill.”

“I’ll be done in about an hour, by the smell of me,” Donna told him, shutting the bathroom door. He shook his head, smiling, and took his key with him. Down to the first floor he went, feeling pretty good, aware that the blood had almost replaced itself by now. There he made some arrangements with the owner, John Crossland, head of the family who ran the hotel, stable and grill. The grandfather of Cathy, John Crossland gladly discussed the big man’s proposed route with him, and where they might stop for either Tim’s convenience or their own. The patriarch, who would have had to be twins to equal Kit’s mass, was delighted to be of assistance, and his family readily fell in with the plan the ‘American’ outlined. Well pleased, the Phantom returned to their room to find Donna brushing her damp hair out. She wore a look of satisfaction and very little else.

“You can’t go to dinner that way,” he commented mildly, and closed the bathroom door just in time to hear her hairbrush hit it squarely. He showered and shaved in less than ten minutes, and removed the gauze pad on the stitching only after he had dried off from his shower. The edges of the wound were knitting well, he judged, experienced with injuries, and he cleaned the area briefly with a damp cloth. Wearing a damp towel, he emerged to find Donna wearing a stylish sheath of pale gray cotton, matching leather sandals and carrying a handbag.

“Are you going to dinner in that?” she asked, raising one eyebrow. He thought it a very fetching expression. He realized that he found it cute, and pondered telling her so.

“No,” he replied meditatively, trying to think where other clothes were. “Not unless you want me to.”

“Ahgh,” she said, disgusted. “Here, try these.”

She produced a pair of boxers, a pair of blue cotton slacks, another white t-shirt and a grey turtleneck. He wondered how she did that, knowing where everything was.

“I’ll have you know this is rather formal in some parts of the world,” he told her as he dressed. “Warmer parts, I’ll admit.”

“ ‘Go to dinner,’ you said,” she quoted. “Not go to the beach, not go to the theater, not go to the orgy. Although, if you’d said ‘go to bed’ it might have got you a different reaction. Dinner is almost a date, Kit, so do it right, even if we are engaged.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, grinning at her from beneath the sweater as he pulled it on. “I had no idea you could look so fashionable, Donna.”

“This?” she said, blushing. “Do you really like it? I’ve always thought it was a little bit colorless.”

“Take it from a guy who wears bright purple and black for a living,” he said, pulling on his boots. “You look great. It kind of emphasizes you, not the clothes.”

“Thanks,” she said, evaluating him as he stood up. “You are not bad at all, Kit. That looks great. No one will ever recognize you for you. An American movie star, maybe.”

He slid his wallet into one pocket and offered her his left arm, with hardly an ache to it as he did. She took it with careful formality, and they left the room as if to a gala ball. They had registered as Mr. and Mrs. Walker, and the Phantom had given the Crosslands to know that they were on their honeymoon. At their entry to the restaurant they were shown to a comfortable private booth at the rear, far from any other customers, of which there were few. Candles were lit and menus produced without a word, and swiftly removed once they had chosen their meals.

“You’ve been arranging things again,” she deduced, looking at the dark-haired adonis across the table. “What did you tell them?”

“Oh, we’re on our honeymoon, Donna,” he told her. “It hasn’t been all that smooth, so far, what with the fire and all. But we’re so in love that we hardly notice. Play along.”

“Love, that won’t be playing,” she said, touched. “I am so in love that I hardly notice little things like being filthy, eating poorly, having to guess your sizes, sleeping strangely, having no saddle for Tim, moving to another country. With anyone else, Kit, I’d be kicking and screaming the whole way. As long as it’s you, I’ll just figure out how to get along. Rather like Tim does, when I make him do something new. I can see him thinking ‘if it was anyone else…’ At this point, you could ask me to leave Tim and I’d probably do it, given a good reason. But please don’t.”

“We’re not leaving Tim,” he assured her, taking her hands with his across the table. His rings caught the light from the candles, and she rubbed her thumbs along their age-worn surfaces. “He’s yours, you love him, you’ll want him when we get home. I do hope he gets along with Hero.”

“Tell me about your horse, Kit,” she asked, memorizing his face in the candlelight, feeling all quivery and liquid inside. His hair caught golden highlights from the flames, dark and silken as it lay waved atop his head. His gray eyes were in shadow from the dark brows that usually hid behind the mask. The lighting made him seem to have a shadow mask, really, she thought, a kind of omen that what he was would not change. That pleased her, for she loved him as he was, and desired no shift of personality or habit. He even left the bathroom neat, an unheard of trait for a man, in her experience.

“Hero?” asked the Ghost Who Walks, luxuriating in the opportunity to simply gaze at his woman’s face. Her hair was drying now, brushed back in a shoulder length mass of reddish brown, highlighted with copper. There were few shadows on her face, but the candles lent it a depth of color daylight did not, making her seem tanned and reddened by her life outdoors, when he knew her skin was smooth and soft, even pale. Her eyes were bright with emotion, and he knew she was controlling herself, for her eyes threatened to spill tears down her high cheekbones at any moment.

“He’s a stallion, white, about eleven, very fast. He was bred by my father, and raised in the Deep Woods, so he’s pretty smart about the jungle and the terrain. We might need to get Tim immunized against a few of the local stock diseases, but Hero’s line was bred for that kind of toughness. He’s mostly thoroughbred, I’m sure, but I’m less certain of his other strains. He’s quite beautiful, when he’s clean, but he’s not vain, and he does like to lay in the stream and then in the mud. He does a lot of the tricks Tim does, and no one else can ride him unless I tell him to let them. His gaits are good, but his trot isn’t as smooth as Tim’s. He likes papayas for treats and hates crocodiles and tigers.”

“Crocodiles?” she said in puzzlement. “You have crocodiles where you live? And tigers?”

“No, but outside the Deep Woods we’ve come across them. They don’t generally bother you unless you ride right over them, or splash right by them. If you act like prey in the jungle, something will treat you as prey.”

“Are they the salt water type of crocodile, the Australian kind,” she asked, “or the river kind? I hear about the salt water sort eating people all the time.”

“Mostly they’re the freshwater type,” he assured her, seeing their waitress approach, and sliding on his glasses. Their waitress was the daughter of John Crossland, and her husband was their chef. She carried a huge tray easily, laden with their dinner, steaks, potatoes, salads, and breads, with fruit slices decorating their salad plates like flowers. Cold glasses, frost still melting from them, were filled with iced tea, and water glasses were set down, as well. The slender young woman, Annie, smiled at them, winked at Donna, and left without a word.

“Oh, this looks wonderful,” Donna said happily, picking up her fork. “I’m so hungry, I might be able to eat it all.”

“It does look good,” he commented, slicing off a piece of steak. “Mmm. Looks do not deceive, dear lady.”

Very little conversation ensued after that, as the food deserved their full attention, and had it. As they cleaned their plates, replete with a meal spiced by exertion no less than the chef, the stable girl approached. Cathy was followed by the entire family, and carried a long box wrapped in white and silver paper, tied with a lavender ribbon. She handed it to the Phantom, a grin on her freckled face, the family standing around and watching with the eager silence of a Christmas morning.

“This is for you, Donna,” said the Phantom softly, giving it to her, while their waitress sighed and hugged her husband, a stout, part Maori man named Oswald.

“Oh, Kit,” she said, feeling both eager and wary. “I don’t need anything but you. What is it?”

“Open it!” urged both Cathy and the Phantom at the same time, seconded by three or four of the other Crossland clan. Thus urged, Donna opened it carefully, loath to destroy the pretty thing by ripping, as part of her wanted to do. What could Kit have gotten her? She opened the box.

“Oh, Kit!” she exclaimed softly, feeling her heart swell within her. “It’s beautiful! How did you manage this?”

She lifted out a piece of leather artwork, a bridle, stainless steel snaffle bit attached, of perfect chocolate brown, shining with leather oil and newness. It lay in her hands like soft cloth, smelling of that new leather scent, like catnip to a horseman. Raised braiding decorated the caveson and browband, the reins woven of five thin pieces all in one, to give a good grip. Stitching was snow white and the brass buckles and fittings shone like gold.

“I think she likes it,” someone whispered loudly in the back of their audience. Donna laughed and clasped the bridle to her, heedless of what the oiled leather would do to her dress.

“I love it,” she said simply, tears spilling down her face, unheeded. As she wore no makeup, they left only shiny tracks. “Oh, Kit, I love you. Thank you.”

Donna was choked with emotion, and the romantics among the Crosslands sighed with understanding and a little envy. Kit rose to his feet and took Donna’s hand. Clutching her bridle and purse in one hand, and her lover’s waist with the other, she fairly floated away with him to their room.

“Ah,” sighed Mary Crossland, satisfied. “He knows the way to treat a lady, doesn’t he? No one’ll ever say those Americans have got no manners around me again. And such style.”

“And so handsome,” agreed Mary’s unwed daughter, Connie. “But they make a beautiful pair, so they do. You did a fine job, Cathy, dear. How much did old Haversham charge you for the bridle?”

“Not half what Mr. Walker gave me,” the slender girl told her aunt, as her mother began cleaning up after their guests. “I figured part of that was mine, so I bought something for ‘em, too. It’s easy when you know all they’ve got for that nice horse is a bridle and some brushes.”

“What did you get them?” asked her grandfather, seeing the girl pick up the paper and ribbon carefully.

“Two of those travel bags of sweet feed,” she said, folding the paper into the empty box, then setting the ribbon on top, before closing it. “I left them on their haybale in their trailer. That Mr. Walker is pretty slick, Grandpa. I never saw him touch the paper I wrote the measurements on, but it’s sure gone.”

“You’re right, Cathy,” the elder Crossland agreed. “That’s a man with a lot of hidden talents. I hope you come across one that nice someday.”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s that many of him around, dear,” his wife Mary told him, gently pinching his cheek. “But one like you would do.”

The couple made their way to their room, Kit well pleased with Donna’s reaction, sated by a fine dinner, and feeling quite civilized and domestic. Donna, however, was so emotionally charged that their door hadn’t clicked shut before she had flung her arms, bridle in hand, around his neck and kissed him hard. Unfortunately, the bit struck one of the deeper injuries on his back, and the Phantom flinched.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Kit,” she gasped, letting go of him and carefully hanging the bridle on the doorknob. “I was just so happy! Let me see how your back looks, please? I promise not to use anything hard on it.”

“As I recall, you promised something else entirely,” he agreed, stripping off the sweater and T-shirt all at once. He closed their window drapes, while she watched the play of muscles under his golden skin. When he came back to her, she sat him on the bed and removed the Band-Aids from his back, finding the injuries healed enough to remain open. Her body pressed up against his back, she slid her hands under his arms to caress his chest, her lips on his neck and ear in delicate, short nibbles.

“Dessert,” she whispered in his ear, stroking his wire-haired chest, feeling his heartbeat, his warmth, his strength in every finger. A stallion in human form, she thought secretly, letting her hand drift down his torso to his waist. His muscular belly tightened as she slid her fingers under the cloth and along his flesh, and then he took her hands in his and brought them to his face to kiss. He rose to his feet and let the tan slacks fall around his boots, watching her with those featureless sunglasses still on his face. She slid from the bed to kneel at his feet, hands on his boot. He let her take them off, enjoying the fine view of her back, and used the opportunity to unzip her dress. With both boots off, she raised her arms to him and he slid the dress free, tossing it away and pulling her to her bare feet. He held her close, her bare breasts sweet against his chest, feeling as if the world were a very good place indeed.

“Oh, my god, what a lovely feeling,” she whispered, nestling up against his body, arms tight around his back as if to pull herself into him. “Your skin is so nice on mine, Kit. Hold me, love me, please.”

“I can’t tell you how much I love you, Donna,” he said softly, wrapping his arms around her carefully. She seemed so small and delicate, though he suspected she was not nearly so delicate as she appeared. “I don’t know how to measure anything so vast. I’ve never loved anyone else, and I don’t think I ever will. Do you really want to do this before the wedding? I don’t ever want to force you into anything.”

“Kit,” she said in a small voice, head against his chest, lips on his stitches. She had dreaded this, but made herself say it. “I’m not a virgin. I’ve been in college and on the pill for three years. I quit when I met you. I’ve had three lovers, mostly for the sake of experiment, though I thought it was love at the time. I think I wanted it to be, but it wasn’t really. The last one I broke up with almost a year ago. I know what I want, but I don’t want to force you, or hide anything from you. I know most men can be slaves to their desires, but I think you can decide for yourself, if anyone can. I’ll wait, if you really want to, but as far as I’m concerned, we were married two days ago, and I’ve been patient long enough.”

“Ah, ‘tis a saint you are,” he said in a thick Irish accent, laughing at her kindly. “As long as you ask so nicely, and flatter my sex so highly, I suppose I must reward your patience.”

She was relieve to hear his laughter, and felt his arms lift her easily to the bed. It felt like flying, but she was already so dizzy with his scent that she only knew what had happened when she felt the bedspread beneath her body, the pillows beneath her head. He turned off all but one light, the one in the bathroom, so that they could see each other, but without the harshness of daylight, more like moonlight. She watched him with an anticipation and emotion that she had never felt before, even her first time, all the weakness and trembling back at the sight of his Herculean body, as he finally took off his boxers and the sunglasses. He sat beside her on the bed, looking down at her with eyes that made her feel as if she might faint with just that look. Eyes like that could kill, she told herself, treasuring the thought that she was the only one to see him so.

She put a hand on his muscled thigh in tender caress, and he leaned down to kiss her, almost chastely, before his right hand took possession of her breast, as if it had been a small bird, fragile and delicate. She abandoned herself to his touch, his exploration of her, at first hesitant, unsure, as if he were afraid to hurt her, though she had never seen him anything but decisive, certain, self-assured. Donna became aware, with a start of partly fear and partly wonder, that he was a virgin, without any more than an idea of what to do. She decided quickly to be subtle, and encouraged him with sounds and sighs of pleasure. They were in no way feigned, for he was a very quick study, soon concentrating his efforts to devastating effect. Her orgasm was a complete shock to him, and thus very brief, and he was worried until she whimpered to him not to stop.

“What was that?” he asked, excited and yet worried at her spasms of nerve and body. His hand still stroked her breast, her panties were somewhere in the darkness beyond their private world. She was trembling and her skin was flushed and damp, her breath fast and eager. Her hands shook where they rested on his neck, having guided him only gently. She would not risk the ego of this man by speaking of other lovers and what they had done to try to please her. Tried, and often failed.

“Nirvana, lover,” she told him, gasping as his lips surrounded her nipple in tender near-worship. “An orgasm, pleasure, pure and simple. In the normal lingo, you made me come, something not all men can do for a woman, though they all think they can. A man comes in the act of ejaculation, but the woman depends more on foreplay and time to give her pleasure, though not, it seems, with you. It helps you, since if you look between my legs right now, you’ll find a very easy, lubricated sheath for that monster you’ve grown. It’s nature’s way, I guess, of making sure the woman gets her turn at the pleasures of the flesh. Though all you have to do is look at me and I’m on the edge.”

“Then let’s do that again,” he murmured, and began to suckle at her tit with firm, even motions, delighted to hear that her seizure had been pleasure, not pain. She was not sure, after that, how long she hung in helpless, ecstatic limbo, for not only her breasts and belly were sore later. She calmed to a state where she could see him and understand his satisfaction, both with her reactions and with himself. She drew him with trembling hands down on top of her, feeling the hard shaft of his maleness between her twitching thighs. She took the silken thing in her hand, gentle as he had been with her for so long.

“Oh, you are huge,” she sighed in a purr of pleasure and anticipation. She felt him raise his body a little, and spread her hips beneath him to invite him, raising her knees. She rubbed the wide head in her dripping fluids, and slid it into her eager opening. She felt again that tremor of both fear and wonder, holding the thick shaft in place, and whispered huskily, “push now, Kit.”

Slowly, savoring the feel of her warm, tight body on his flesh, Kit let his hips press down onto her own, her legs raised to make room for his size. He filled her body as he filled her heart, she thought, reveling in his pressure on her, in her. She made a little growl of enjoyment as he raised his body above hers and began to move inside her, entranced by her enjoyment as much as his own. Soon her cramping legs were holding to his powerful thighs as he rode her, his hips driving into her with a primal force that neither could have denied, nor did either want to do so. They came together, each clutching the other in the ecstasy of giving way to all desire and control.

They lay together, panting and twitching, their hearts slowing gradually, their sweat drying, coming back to the normal plane of existence from their own private heaven. Donna wallowed in the feel of his body on her own, heavy, warm, skin stuck to hers here and there, his shrinking sex still in her, his seed seeping from her bruised and stretched womb. His body covered hers, keeping her warm, but his was exposed to the cool night air, and would be stiff if he did not take care. Well, she would take care, she thought, possessively. He was her husband, after all, or almost.

“Kit,” she whispered, stroking his scarred back, relieved to feel no blood, “I love you. I’ll always love you. But if you don’t put something over your back, you’ll be too stiff to drive tomorrow. Me or Bernie.”

His chuckle moved their bodies enough that he slipped free of her, his maleness shrunken and pleased with itself, and she felt her fluids and his draining messily onto the bedspread. Well, the staff thought they were on their honeymoon, it wouldn’t surprise them. He rolled off of her and caught up the towel he’d worn out of the bathroom and left beside the bed. With tender hands, as if changing a baby, he wiped up what he could, drying her gently, as if he might, after all that wonderful roughness, hurt her! To her delight, he scooped her up in his arms like a child, kissing what parts he could reach, and carried her into the bathroom.

“Run the water to your taste, lady dear,” he told her, his eyes still hotly possessive, “and we’ll make sure we’re clean enough to suit you. If you don’t mind showering together, that is.”

“Last time we were in a tub together,” she said, obeying quickly, “I was on top. Altogether less pleasurable than tonight for the both of us.”

“I’ll always remember that part of it that was important, Donna,” he told her, watching her naked backside with great satisfaction. “Actually, that’s about all I remember about that night. Future generations are going to be shocked, you know. I’ll be the family joke, proposing in a bath tub.”

“Don’t write that, then,” she told him, satisfied at the temperature. “Get in. Write that you proposed flat on your back, or my lap, after the fire. Or that you bribed me with that lovely bridle and I said ‘yes’ tonight. I did say ‘yes,’ didn’t I?”

He stood in the spray with her in his arms, and said softly, “I love you, Lady Donna, more than I ever knew anyone could love. You did indeed say ‘yes.’ I’ll have to buy you tack more often, if this is what happens to you afterward.”

“Goof,” she said, eeling around to get at soap and a wash towel. “I wanted to make love to you since I first met you. You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Not that you don’t have faults, I know, but, God, what a body.”

“What faults?” he asked, as she carefully washed his back and the injured pectoral muscle, watching the water rill from her erect nipples. “Maybe I can change that.”

“I don’t know, Kit,” she told him seriously. Her hands were now soaping his genitals, and he was almost distracted. “You have one of the worst faults a man can have. I only noticed it tonight.”

“What did I do?” he asked, running over the list, certain that she didn’t know about the measurements that Cathy had given him. Had he hurt her, insulted her, broken some unknown rule of sexual etiquette?

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice that you gave me a bridal gift?” she said, and began laughing almost hysterically. She laughed so hard he began to laugh, too, realizing what she found so funny. He held her until she began to get her breath, thinking about it.

“Well, I’d already groomed Tim for you,” he told her, and felt her dissolve into helpless snorts of laughter, threatening to drown her while the water still ran. He turned it off, figuring that they were clean enough, and handed her a towel.

“And we’ve had the shower,” she added, going off again, tears streaming down her face. He gave up on her, having run out of puns, and dried them both off, brushed out her hair and carried her chortling body back to the bed. She stood more or less on her own, and he avoided catching her eye, trying to prevent further outbursts. He jerked the bedspread from their trysting couch, turned down the bed and gestured to her to choose a side, ready for another pun, but she had gained control at last, or else succumbed to exhaustion. She chose the side away from him, the left, and he took the right, after turning off the last light and opening the curtains that would show them Tim the next morning.

He smiled to himself as she curled up against him, just as she had the night of the fire. He didn’t actually remember that, but that was how they had awakened, and he did remember that. He was vastly pleased, almost smug, to remember the pleasure she had taken in him, and still astonished at the sheer, physical ecstasy she had given him. He cherished her words that not all men could please a woman so, and wondered if that contributed to the evolution of rapists.

He had always had difficulty understanding that sort of man before, but now he thought perhaps he could. The drive to repeat such a thrill would obsess some, like a drug addiction, he thought, as well as the desire to dominate and control that which could produce it. It was still no excuse, but it was less of a mystery to him, now.

He fell asleep with her arm over his waist, her breasts against his back, her breath in his ear. He awoke with her hand fondling him and her lips against his nape. Tim’s ringing summons cut off that pleasant game, as Donna, heedless of her nudity, bounced out of bed to see what had caused him to call so demandingly. A robe hit her before she made it to the window, and she held it in front of her while she peered out at the barn.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more sex. last for a while. Still awkward, I think.

Dressed in the towel he had worn and used the night before, Kit joined her, realizing to his mild annoyance, that Donna didn’t care a fig leaf for what anyone but he thought of her body. Lady Godiva had nothing on his horsewoman, he thought, imagining his voluptuous near-wife riding nude along Keelawee Beach.

  
“He’s found someone to make him cake,” said Donna in astonishment, as the Ghost Who Walks helped her on with the robe. “Oh, he’s going to get the whole thing without having to work for it, the piglet. Now, who told Cathy about Tim’s secret passion?”

  
“I told her last night,” the big man admitted, pulling her away from the window. “So she could measure him for the bridle.”

  
“The bridle!” she exclaimed, crossing to the door, and picking it up to admire in the morning light. “Oh, it’s even more beautiful than I remember.”

  
“You sure can tell you’re a horsewoman, not a housekeeper,” the Phantom told her, laughing. “The only thing in this room not scattered around the floor is that bridle. It’s hung carefully on the door. Everything else looks like a tornado came through.”

  
“Everything we weren’t wearing is where it belongs,” she sniffed, unimpressed. “God and the Devil, I’m hungry. I may go down and beg crumbs from Tim.”

  
“Not dressed like that,” protested the mostly naked man. “I don’t want anyone else seeing you like that. That’s a joy I reserve for myself, at least here.”

  
“Oh, alright,” she conceded. “Spoilsport. I don’t know why people make such a big deal about naked skin, anyway. Everyone has the same things, more or less.”

  
“Would you let me out like this?” he asked, lifting his hands to let the towel fall to the floor. His stitches hardly pulled at all, now.

  
“Not on your supposedly immortal life,” she told him. “Some woman might decide to poach. Oh, alright, I’ll dress if you will. Race you?”

  
“No, I’m not in a hurry,” he said, poking around for his clothes of the night before. “You already know what to wear, anyway. I’ll be ready when I’m ready.”

  
“Fine, I’ll be out in a few minutes, lover,” she said, going into the bathroom and closing the door. He smiled and dressed himself well before she emerged. He picked up and packed quite a lot of their discards of the night before, shaking his head over the oil stains on the gray dress. She wouldn’t be getting married in that. He was able to sit relaxed at the window and watch Donna dress herself, smiling contentedly.

  
“Right, Kit,” she said, slinging her bridle from her shoulder. “Let’s go eat, or hunt, or something. Tim’s hay is starting to appeal to me.”

  
“Well, I think we can do something about that,” he murmured, rising. He picked up a small black bag, formerly for Donna’s helmet, from beside the chair and handed Donna her purse. Arm in arm, they again descended to the lobby. The grill was deserted, and seemed closed, and Donna groaned in disappointment.

  
“Ah!” said Mary Crossland from behind them, making Donna jump. “There you are! In you go, before it gets cold. Been expecting you, we have.”

  
With a motherly fuss, she soon had them seated and served with huge portions of ham, pancakes with syrup and fried potatoes. The Phantom saw Cathy and her Aunt Connie moving their luggage, such as it was, out to the trailer, and smiled to himself.

  
“Have a nice night, dears?” the matriarch inquired as she poured orange juice and milk. “I don’t know how American it is, but it’s as close as I could come, you see. We’ve not an egg left since the baking. Cathy’s quite taken with your Tim, Miss Donna, oh, yes, and made cakes and biscuits for him. Says he’ll do tricks for ‘em, she does. I told her not to give him too much, and mind for colic, but they’re oat biscuits with molasses, so they’re safe enough. I’d not eat ‘em yourself, understand, but he’ll do well on ‘em, I’ll be bound.”

  
“Oh, he’s going to be spoiled rotten,” Donna told her, between gulps of barely chewed food. “I’d not be so generous, but he did save our lives in the fire, and he’ll get over it. Thank you so much, Mrs. Crossland, this breakfast is wonderful. I don’t know how I worked up such an appetite overnight.”

  
“Well, dear, I expect you and your young man weren’t just sleeping all night,” she said, winking. “Lots of energy gets burned up in hotel beds.”

  
Donna blushed and only confirmed the grandmother’s suspicions. She chivied them out as soon as they were done, bustling about with plates and glasses.

  
In the lobby, to Donna’s surprise, they were met by Annie and Oswald with boxed lunches and their cooler, filled with ice and bottled cider. Like visiting dignitaries, they were allowed to carry nothing but their personal items, and escorted to the stable area. Tim, haltered and brushed, stood ready to load, and on the flake of alfalfa in his manger was a small pile of sweetfeed, topped by a muffin. He saw Donna and whuffled to her, then loaded himself on command, delighted with his breakfast treat.

  
“Ah, Kit,” she sighed to her lover. “He enjoys them so much, it’s hard to regret it. Shall I settle up the bill, or will you?”

  
“Already done, dear heart,” he told her, helping Oswald put the cooler in Bernie’s back seat, along with their lunches. “But Cathy wants you to tell her about how you saved us from the fire again.”

  
Donna raised an eyebrow at his interpretation, but complied with a suitably edited version of the event, to the delight of all on hand. The Phantom had time to stow his helmet bag, which contained the remains of his costume and gunbelt, under the passenger seat before she was finished.

  
“I want a horse like Tim someday,” Cathy told her mother as the two ‘newlyweds’ pulled out. “And that Mr. Walker is really nice. Miss Donna is really lucky.”

  
With Donna driving, they headed north to Waiouru, then westerly before going north again, past the Tongariro National Park. They were stopped several times by sheep or cattle crossing the roads, but made fair time, given the condition of the highway. The Tongariro was an active volcanic area, and the earth shifted often there. Several times whole towns had been destroyed by the earth’s awesome power and the uneasy forces in it. Whiffs of sulfur told the Phantom of thermal vents nearby and several signs offered tours of the volcano as they passed. Having been inside an active volcano before, Kit was not tempted, for the area around Bengalla’s Veiled Lady was quite similar, if warmer.

  
The conversation had been almost shy, Donna nearly afraid to believe in that glorious few hours they had spent. She felt herself warm with pleasure, and blush more often than not, at the feel of her sore nipples. Her sensitive crotch was a frequent reminder, every time she used the clutch or brake. She tried not to fantasize too much about what she would do the next time, but it was hard. Each time she looked at him, her heart raced and her body tightened with desire. He had been _so_ good.

  
He sat with a contemplative air, replaying every move of the night before, each word, a faint smile on his face, his sunglasses telling her nothing of how often he looked at her. She wore her jeans, paddock boots and a navy blue polo shirt with a logo in yellow over her left breast. He remembered the flesh beneath the words ‘Papakura Pony Club’ very well. He felt no desire to do anything but look at her, her face against the windows, the greens and browns of the scenery making little more than an impressionist frame for her dark blond hair. The light of the sun burnished more copper into it where it had dried wavy the night before.

  
“Kit,” she finally said, just past Taumarunui, “I’m going to pull off somewhere along here and let Tim out. Do you want to have a picnic?”

  
“I’d love to, dear Donna,” he said, his voice that warm caress she shivered to hear. “I think the Crosslands planned it that way. Very friendly place, New Zealand.”

  
“They’re the kind of people who give us that reputation,” Donna agreed, seeing a reasonable turnoff up ahead. This was cattle country, for the most part, and several holding pens lined the edge of the wider road. Behind them were a small stream, a pond and a small grove of trees, with the added plus of wild blackberries. The gate wasn’t locked, and they carefully closed it after driving in. Tim was quite happy to amuse himself while they laid out their lunch beneath the trees. The Crosslands had included a pair of wool rugs, thin blankets, as well as cold beef, bread, fruits and plastic cups for their cider. It made an idyllic picture, the Phantom thought, set under the shady boughs. Donna noted that no one could see them from the road, and planned on a dessert that had nothing to do with the cake in their lunches.

  
Half an hour later, rested and full, her love lay with his head in her lap, while she fed him blackberries from the tangle between them and the road. She felt the back of his head against her well-used bush, the ache of her breasts against her bra, and sighed in resignation to herself. Naturally, he heard her.

  
“What are you thinking?” he asked softly, aware of her hand on his cheek like a benediction. She blessed him with her very presence, he told himself, looking up at her with a feeling of pride he had never had before. Simply because she loved him.

  
“That I want to make love to you again,” she told him honestly, her other hand dropping another berry into his mouth. “That I’ve never enjoyed being sore so much in my life. Do you know what a thrill it is to be rubbed on a raw spot and be reminded who did it and how?”

  
“You’re hurt?” he said in dismay, sitting up abruptly. “I hurt you?”

  
“No, no, Kit,” she denied, regretting her words immediately. “Just a little raw. It’s been over a year, you know. I’m just out of practice. Everything toughens up after a while. Besides, it’s rather erotic to think about how it happened, about doing it again, and again. And if you say you’re sorry, I’ll be disappointed, Kit. I’m not sorry, not one bit. If last night had killed me, my only regret would have been too little time with you!”

  
“But, I hurt you?” he repeated, his hand going out tentatively to her cheek, feather light. “Oh, Donna, I didn’t mean to. I’ll be more careful, darling, I promise.”

  
“I don’t want you to be more careful, Kit, dear,” she told him, resolving to keep some things from him, if only for the sake of his own peace of mind. Superior he might be, but he was still a man, fragile of ego and prone to overreact. “I want you to do it again. It was the most, well, magnificent sexual encounter I’ve ever had, and I fully expect to improve on it with practice. It’s just that it’s my turn to please you, if you’ll let me.”

  
He heard the plea in her voice and drove his mind to consider her words, past the emotional guilt of having harmed her in any way. She was undoubtedly correct, he told himself, aware of how limited his own experience was in that field. He felt her lips on his palm as she took his hand in her own and kissed it before he could answer. He admitted to himself that he found her offer very tempting, and surely she knew better than he what she could endure in such situations.

  
“If you promise you won’t let me hurt you again,” he said, hoping she was not going to simply ignore any pain, the way he often did.

  
“Promise, lover,” she told him, a smile of radiant happiness crossing her face in the dappled shade. “Lay down on the ground, Kit, on your back. This time, I run things.”

  
“You did last time, too,” he commented, as she arranged him on one blanket and made a pillow with the other. Tim watched from the sunny meadow, a guard and a good luck charm, she thought, feeling her body tremble with eagerness. She hoped she hadn’t forgotten how to do this.

  
“Now, Kit,” she told him, as she knelt at his side, “you’re job is to just lay there and enjoy yourself. You can help a little, but I’m doing the work this time, right?”

  
“Yes, Donna, dear,” he said, wondering what she intended. They were both more or less fully clothed, after all. “It won’t hurt you?”

  
“No, it won’t even touch my sore spots,” she lied, almost purring with anticipation. Her hands shook as she opened his fly with slow, tantalizing motions, when what she wanted to do was to shred anything between their skins. “But you might have a few by the time I’m done."

She caressed his clothing down to his knees, glad that this was the looser pair of trousers she had bought him. Her lips explored his belly, his groin and thighs, his body still astonishing her with the definition of each part of him. She took his swelling genitals into her hands, cupping them from beneath so that he overflowed her hand. She kissed his belly, feeling it tighten, then nibbled her way down to the base of his shaft, her other hand covering most of him, so that what little of him she didn’t hold, she was gently nibbling, tongue damp and warm on him.

  
She let the swelling genitals lay on his thighs, and with gentle hands, took up the shaft of his penis, still using her mouth on the base. He groaned beneath her as she began to pull her hand up and down the silken-skinned organ, drawing him swiftly to an erection. She set her mouth on the crown of his shaft, kissing at first, then licking the wide head, tasting his glorious tool with a pleasure that ran like fire through them both.

  
Slowly, with gently stroking hands constantly on him, she bestrode his legs and took his head into her mouth. He was soon hard, and she ran her tongue as far down the underside of his manhood as she could without letting him out of her mouth. He shuddered under her, and she felt his hands on her hair, shaking. She began to fondle his balls with her left hand, squeezing gently and holding the base of his organ with her right. Her head moved down, taking his shaft as far down her throat as she could, slowly going back up, letting his delicate head feel the soft, firm tissues of her tongue and throat. She was wet between her own thighs, and she planned her endgame with only a small bit of her fervently occupied mind.

  
She heard him groan her name as she moved slowly up and down on him, and after he started to tremble, stopped and began to stroke his thighs, surreptitiously dropping her own jeans below her knees to her ankles. When he seemed to have drawn back from his edge of release, she took him in her mouth again and this time she sucked on him as if he had been candy. He gasped beneath her as she began to combine both techniques, letting her teeth close ever so slightly for a more tightly fitted hold. He trembled and shook beneath her, but she was able to draw him back from his climax again, letting his shaft slip free and the cooler air chill his excitement ever so slightly. She slid up his body so that she could kiss his throat.

  
“Having fun?” she purred, feeling the swollen flesh of him trapped between their bodies. Oh, he smelled so wonderful, it was a wonder she had lasted this long.

  
“That’s, ah, hard to call fun, dear,” he groaned, hands gripping her shoulders gently, the skin around her stitches hardly stretched at all. “Oh, very pleasant, and I like it, but it’s not really fun.”

  
She chuckled to herself and took his iron-hard shaft in her hand as she leaned over his torso. With a grunt of ecstasy, she impaled herself on him, stretched to near-pain by his size as she sat upright. This kept her sore parts away from the wiry hairs of his groin and pressed his arching shaft harder against the belly side of her vagina. She began to rise and fall on him, as if posting to the trot, a movement she could keep up for a very long time, and by varying her speed, control his reactions.

  
She enjoyed the feel of controlling him, as if mastering a stallion she had never before ridden, beautiful and wild, yet gentle and kind, willing to be her ally, not her enemy. She could have kept him in pleasant suspense for hours, had she had the patience, but he tempted her far too much to wait. She moved on him, driving him to his long-delayed completion, urging him with the grip of her body and the motion of her own. She was panting with exertion and lust when she felt him begin to drive up to meet her, his own groan of pleasured fulfillment underlining his seed as it spurted into her eager womb. She held him with her own inner muscles until he began to shrink, and with a smug look, dismounted from him. She wiped herself with a picnic napkin, using another on him as he lay where he had begun, a beatific smile on his face, the sunglasses by his head on the grass. She pulled up her jeans and his boxers, kissing his shrunken tool one last time through the slit of cotton, then his loose trousers.

  
“Sure it wasn’t fun?” she teased, kissing him on his forehead, running her hand through his dark hair, damp with sweat near the scalp. He had such nice hair, not too long, not too short.

  
“Well, maybe just a little fun,” he conceded, sitting up with a grace and ease he had not been able to manage in the last few days. Now he felt both relaxed and energized, as if he could do almost anything but let her go. “Very entertaining, pleasurable in the extreme, highly educational, somewhat frustrating, and very undignified, certainly.”

  
“But did you like it?” she asked, wondering if she had conceived yet. He might not want to think about children, but she didn’t need to think about it to give him one. She had never wanted to have a child before, never even thought about it.

  
“Donna, I liked it very much,” he admitted. “I’m not used to being so passive, though, in anything.”

  
“Well, you don’t always have to be passive,” she told him with a kiss on his cheek. “I just thought it was my turn to do the work after yesterday, Kit. I wanted you to know that I can please you as well as you pleased me. And I’ll do it again whenever you want. Besides, this place was too good an opportunity to pass up, even though we’ll be lucky to make it to Hamilton tonight, now.”

  
“I’ll keep that offer in mind, Donna,” he said, smiling as he put on his sunglasses. He backflipped to his feet, and pulled her up and into his arms. “I’m suddenly in no hurry to get to Bengalla.”

  
“Long lunch breaks do seem to be good for you, O Ghost Who Walks,” she sighed, snuggling in his arms as if into a warm bed, feeling pleasantly tired and very pleased with herself, her lover and the world. “I’m going to need a nap.”

  
“Well, load up and you can sleep in the back of Bernie,” he told her, feeling as if he really could fly at that moment, as some of the jungle folk believed. “I’ll pick up here, you get Tim.”

  
“Mmm, right,” she said lazily, turning to go out into the sunlight, but not leaving his arms. He kissed her hair and let her go, amazed again at how wonderful she was. She had the gelding in the trailer and her part done before he had stowed the remains of their lunch. She waited sleepily at the gate to the road while he attended to business behind the black berries, then crawled into the back seat and went to sleep. He drove at a fast but expert pace northward, past Tekuiti, and was nearing Hamilton when she awoke. It was close to sunset, and she was feeling quite lively, her sore spots much more tolerant of movement.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Walton Ripper, or a werewolf in New Zealand

“Where are we, lover?” she asked, running her fingers through her hair and stretching.

  
“Almost to Hamilton,” he told her, conscious of a distinctly personal enjoyment of her contented expression. “Does your guidebook have any suggestions, or do we just keep going?”

  
“No, I know someone who lives near here,” she said, leaning up into the front seat to kiss his cheek. “Turn off when you see the sign for Ruakura. He was my professor of Maori studies last year, and he’s got a small horse farm. He’s, well, you’d probably call hem a shaman or a sort of mystic. He’s trying to revive some of the native religious spirit, keep their artwork and traditions alive. He’s also the only one I know that would understand you and I and Tim going off to Bengalla together. We Kiwis call his sort ‘ _tohungas_ ’.”

  
“If he’s a friend of yours, I’d like to meet him,” the Phantom said, slowing for the beginnings of the city. “Does he need an invitation to the wedding?”

  
“If he’ll come, I’d love to have him,” Donna admitted. “He once told me that I’d find someone from a distant land with strong mana. That the _atuas_ , his gods or spirits, had told him so.”

  
“Did he?” said the Phantom without surprise. “Did you believe him?”

  
“Well, he’s pretty impressive for an old man of his size,” she admitted. “You pretty much believe anything he says while you’re in his presence. He was right, wasn’t he? Here you are.”

  
“If you listen to the stories in Bengalla, and the other parts of the jungle,” he told her, “you’ll find it almost normal. Many more primitive societies have priests or magicians with an impressive ability to foretell the future, or other things. It’s only in the ‘civilized’ world that such people are thought crazy or without worth. I’d like to meet him. Did he tell you anything else?”

  
“Uh, he told me I wasn’t really a _pakeha,_ a white,” she recalled dubiously. “According to him, I am a vessel of the sea goddess, or at least her mana can inhabit me. This is not necessarily a good thing, you see, for the sea goddess is the deity who brings vengeance for the dead, who takes the dead to the afterlife. She’s no tame little Greek goddess of flowers, she’s a major force. I think he might have seen the way I get when I’m in a temper, and was joking. It was hard to tell sometimes with Professor Temotu when he was serious, or just pulling your leg.”

  
“I don’t know if I’d take anything such a priest said lightly,” the Phantom told her. “I’ve had some experiences along those lines that incline me more toward an open mind.”

  
“Oh, yes,” she recalled. “Those immortal mates of yours. You know, _atua_ can also translate as ‘ghost.’ I’d love to see what the old dear makes of you.”

  
“Definitely an invitation,” laughed the Phantom, signaling for the turn to Ruakura. Soon the town gave way to a small village on a narrow road, mostly farms and dairies, many homes having small riding rings behind or beside them. They drove up a steep gravel drive to a house that seemed half-Maori and half-English country style. Carved gates with seashell eyes in the figures stood here and there, the barn was painted in imitation of a Maori carven meeting house, a _whare whakairo_.

  
“He has a very famous collection of art and artifacts of native work,” Donna told her fiancé as they pulled around to face back out on the flat circle of land in front of the house. “Strange, no lights on in front. He’s not teaching this summer. I hope he isn’t off at a _hangi_ or something.”

  
They got out of the Range Rover, both of them stretching unused muscles. A horse called in the distance, but little noise intruded on the sudden silence. Tim was quiet, having finished his hay, and the two humans listened in vain for a sign of life from the house.

  
“I hope he’s not gone,” Donna whispered, not even realizing that she was being quiet, or why. “I don’t think anyone’s home.”

  
“There’s something here,” said the Phantom, his voice distant and intense. “I can smell blood. You stay here and I’ll check around the back.”

  
He reached into the still-open passenger door and pulled out his gunbelt. With a gesture of almost impatience, he stripped off the tan trousers, revealing his lower half to be clad in purple silk and black boots. He strapped on the belt as he moved in silent grace toward the side gate, loosing color in the twilight, then pulled on his hood and mask as well. Donna blinked and started toward the front door, having been here several times. She could at least leave the Professor a note, she thought.

  
The front door wasn’t completely closed, just nearly. She pushed it open and saw that there was a light on after all, back in the den, and went toward it with some curiosity. “Professor Temotu?”

  
A groan answered her, and she entered the den to find a scene of gruesome brutality. The cream colored carpet, brown sheepskins and some of the blond oak furniture were spattered with blood, the ragged remains of the old man spotlit by a table lamp. He was still alive, his eyes staring at her in desperation, but he could not live much longer. Severe gashes had opened his body and exposed his intestines, his hands and feet bound to keep him helpless. As he saw her, he began to speak, using his last strength to do so. Shock held her motionless, listening intently as he spoke, then gasped and died.

  
“Oh, God,” she whispered, backing out of the room and bumping into the silent Ghost Who Walks, standing behind her. She jumped and he quickly enfolded her in his arms as she recognized him and leaned into his calm strength. She was trembling on the edge of hysteria until he held her, then her sense took hold of her again. “The Walton Ripper, Kit. That’s who must have done this.”

  
“What did he say to you?” he said gently, the hard edge of his Oath blunted for the first time by his desire to protect his beloved. “He was talking when I came in, but I didn’t understand him.”

  
“He called on me for vengeance,” she whispered. “He laid on me the task of finding his killer. I have to put an end to the Walton Ripper.”

  
“He’s gone now, Donna,” he told her, stroking her hair. “Your friend and his killer. We need to call the police. Even I can’t track him in the dark. I need Devil for that.”

  
“We can’t wait, Kit,” she choked, resolutely ignoring the body. “That’s how he’s always escaped before. This is the seventh or eighth time. Tim will track him, even in the dark. Come on.”

  
Unwilling to let the most important person in his life out of sight with a savage killer loose, the Phantom followed Donna out into the front yard. She let Tim out of his box, slapped his new bridle on with practiced speed, and dug out a long package from the tack compartment. Slinging the indistinct object over her shoulder, she flung herself onto the gelding’s back. The Phantom tossed his sunglasses into the front of Bernie and laid a hand on his lover’s leg.

  
“What are you doing, Donna?” he asked. “You can’t just ride around in the dark looking for a madman.”

  
“Did it look like he came out the back of the house?” she demanded, and at his nod, she heeled the big horse toward the back, ducking as she passed under the gate carving. He followed right behind her, swift and silent guard, alert for any watchers, or threats. At the back of the house, in a small stable yard, Donna saw why the Phantom thought their killer had gone this way. A bloody smear marked a door post.

  
“Tim,” she said intensely, getting the horse’s attention. “Hide and Seek, Tim. Hide-and-Seek! Get ‘im!” The horse dropped his head to the earth around the door, wide nostrils drinking in the varied scents. Ears flattened in dislike, and he moved off into the night, head down, but certain. All but disbelieving, the Phantom slipped along behind the pair, an invisible guardian in the darkness.

  
For over an hour they moved along brushy trails and untravelled roads, the big horse moving confidently, his rider erect and silent, the Phantom guarding their backs. In the pale light of distant Hamilton, little could be seen of any of the trio, and almost as little of the terrain. Finally the moon rose, and in it’s light, they saw a possible destination.

  
Ahead lay a rarity in New Zealand, a ruined house. Burned partially, some of its timbers struck across the rising moon, like black claws, gruesome reminders of the disemboweling marks on the dead Temotu. A faint flicker of light inside was visible, as if a tiny fire burned, and something moved around it. A few hundred feet away, Tim stopped and raised his head, ears pricked directly at the house. As they stood silent in the moonlight, an eerie wail came from the place, not words, but not animal, either.

  
“It’s there, Phantom,” said Donna softly, feeling the faint breeze on her face. “Tim says it’s there, whatever it is. The Walton Ripper.”

  
“You and Tim stay here, Donna,” he said, equally soft, but with a command to his voice she had not had addressed to her before. “I don’t want either of you hurt. I’ll get whoever it is.”

  
“You be careful,” said Donna, her head arguing with her heart over whether or not to obey. “You want help, yell.”

  
“Just stay here, Donna,” he repeated, his heart clenching in him at the thought of such a killer getting at her. “I need to know that you’re safe.”

  
He moved up the slight rise toward the derelict, his silence eerie in the silvery moonlight. Donna felt a momentary chill at how this situation resembled a bad horror movie. Twenty feet away, her lover was virtually invisible, even though the turtleneck he wore was gray, not purple. Tim stood alertly, but silent and calm, his mane moving slightly in the night, but otherwise statue still.

  
She waited with her ears and eyes strained to their limits, and heard nothing for what felt like forever. The moon rose full and bright above the horizon and surrounding trees, lighting their setting with silver, far brighter than they had yet experienced. A sudden commotion from the ruin alerted the pair, and something came pelting down the dirt path toward them. Almost within reach, the thing came to a halt at the sight of them, and Donna realized that it was a long-haired, disheveled woman, wearing rags. Wild-eyed, she looked back at the house and gave a little scream. The creature flung herself at Tim, who dodged out of her grasp like a dancer, ears flat and teeth bared, an uncharacteristic reaction for the normally friendly gelding. Donna knew who this woman was now.

  
“Save me!” the ragamuffin cried to Donna. “He’s after me! It’s the Walton Ripper, he’s trying to kill me!”

  
Donna didn’t believe her, for Tim was no more sympathetic to this wildwoman than to a rabid dog. The papers had reasoned that the Walton Ripper must appear harmless to the victims, or some would not have become such. What better way to appear harmless, thought Donna, than to pretend to be a victim trying to escape?

  
“She’s quite insane,” said the deep, dear voice of the Phantom behind the still dodging wild thing. “I believe she thinks she’s a werewolf.”

  
“What do we do with her?” asked Donna, letting Tim wheel and dodge. She shoved the clawing, mewling creature away from her with a foot to the shoulder, and Tim aimed a kick at her in warning.

  
“Try to capture her for the local authorities,” sighed the Phantom. “She’s very strong, darling, and has already got away from me once. Don’t let her get ahold of you or Tim.”

  
“No worries, o Ghost Who Walks,” the rider said, sticking to her mount like a burr. “The vessel of the Atuamoana avenges, it does not become victim. Certainly not to the likes of this.”

  
The Phantom lunged in to grasp the woman’s shoulder and was turned on, a furious savagery that drove him back. The Ripper forgot Donna and her horse and began to stalk the big man through the moonlight. As he made another try at getting a hand on her, Donna saw a flash of steel meet his throat and throw him to the ground, choking. Without hesitation, she booted Tim at the madwoman, even as the creature leaned down to finish off Donna’s fiancé.

  
The big gelding hit her with his shoulder and legs as he leapt the prone figure, knocking her spinning and away from the Phantom. Donna was on the ground before the bay had halted, running straight for the staggering wild thing. The woman recovered her balance just as Donna delivered a punch to her nose with all she had. The Ripper fell to the ground, then staggered erect, blood streaming down her chin. Donna kicked her with a booted heel and heard the ‘werewolf’s’ knee crack. The woman writhed and yowled on the grass, clutching her joint until Donna carefully choked her out as she’d learned to do in her judo classes.

  
“Well done, Donna,” the Phantom said calmly behind her. “Did you see where her knife went?”

  
“I thought she’d stuck it in you, Kit,” gasped Donna, getting up and clutching him to her. He held her fiercely, vastly relieved to find her unmarked. “What did she do, then?”

  
“Slashed up the turtleneck,” he told her, feeling the cool night air through the rip. “Handle or her fist caught me in the throat, stunned me. Again you and Tim save my life, Donna. See why I’d never ask you to leave him?”

  
“You’re welcome, lover,” Donna whispered, content to be held as long as he was alright.

  
“We need to find her knife without touching it, Donna, and to get her back to your friend’s house,” he said, reluctantly. “If we touch it, we’re likely to smear her prints with ours. And we need to leave her at the scene of her crime, so that she’s obviously the killer. Any ideas?”

  
“Put her on Tim,” Donna said confidently. “Tie her on with the reins. He’ll get us back.”

  
Tim proved reluctant, but finally allowed the burden, if Donna rode him as well. A brief search located the weapon, a wicked, claw-shaped piece of steel on a Masonite handle. Using her shirt, Donna picked it up, wrapped it gently, and gave it to the masked giant. The Walton Ripper was showing signs of wakening, and Donna told the Phantom.

  
“Hold her head up, Donna,” he told her, not at all surprised when his beloved did so by the hair. What for him was a gentle blow to the jaw solved their problem, and they started off, Tim trotting slowly, the Phantom keeping pace easily. Even without a rein to guide him, the bay had them back to their starting point far more quickly than they had expected. The Phantom took the unconscious madwoman from Tim’s back, and without a word, went inside the house. He reappeared with the reins, and after handing them to his fiancée, went back inside. Donna haltered Tim and followed him, fighting her desire to run from the room of death.

  
She saw the knife on the floor near the body, the Phantom bent over the still form of the madwoman, and a note on yellow paper on the desk. It read ‘this is the Walton Ripper’ with a small impression of a skull as a signature. The Phantom, in his modified costume, rose and gestured to Donna to leave. She saw that he had tied the lunatic as she had tied her victims, using electrical cords.

  
Outside, without a word to each other, they loaded Tim, got into Bernie, and drove back to Hamilton heading north. Donna drove, wanting something to do besides remember the death of her friend and teacher. The Phantom resumed his more public attire, graceful even in the small space Bernie provided. Once on the road, Donna’s left hand sought his and gripped it tightly. Some miles passed before he felt her tension ease.

  
“Donna,” he said softly, gently. “I know it’s hard, but talking about it will make you feel better in the end. And I’ll feel better if you do.”

  
“Is it always so horrible, Kit?” she said brokenly, eyes on the road through her tears. “To see someone die, I mean.”

  
“Someone you know and can’t help, yes,” he admitted. He would do her no favors by sugar coating the truth. “But some people are ready to die, and they go rather easily. It’s the ones who’ve been killed, lives shortened without reason that are so hard to take.”

  
“How do you stand it?” she asked, the tears spilling over at last. “How do you get used to it?”

  
“You never do,” he told her, wanting to hold her in his arms again. “If I ever do, I won’t be who I am anymore, I won’t care so much. That’s just the price of life, you see, a balance of joy and sorrow, life and death.”

  
“So you’re saying that my joy of you is balanced by this sorrow?” she asked, sniffling. Her driving was not affected by her tears, slower than his, but instinctive, easy.

  
“No, I’m saying that all our joys, and all our sorrows, no matter what they are and when they happen, more or less balance out,” he said, using his free hand to brush away her tears. “It seems to be that way for my family, anyway. How would you know how happy you were, if you were never sad?”

  
“Still, it wasn’t fair that she picked him,” Donna sighed. “He was a really nice man. Even dying, he knew me. I think he even knew you, Kit, that we were together. He asked for vengeance, but he asked me as Apakura, the _atuamoana_ , and, well, blessed us both with his dying breath.”

  
“A powerful shaman often sees beyond the normal world,” the Phantom said thoughtfully. “Some even see their own deaths, and accept them, especially if they see it as a bigger picture.”

  
“We’ll be at my parents’ house around dawn at this rate,” Donna said, after they had driven in sad silence for some time. “What do we do about calling the police? I mean, when do we let them know about the Professor and the Ripper?”

  
“Stop at the next phone you see,” he directed. “I wouldn’t want her to escape, since I didn’t hit her that hard.”

  
“What will you say?” asked Donna, figuring that Mercer, just up ahead, should have a phone available at either the pub or the petrol station.

  
“I’ll tell them that if they want the Walton Ripper, they’d better go to Professor Temotu’s house in Ruakura. By the time they start looking for whoever gift-wrapped her, we’ll be on our way home.”

  
“Right, here’s a telephone,” she said, pulling into a BP station. It was closed, but the glass booth of the phone was lit up. “Call one-one-one and you won’t need any change. But they trace those calls, so make it quick.”

  
“As you command, my lady,” he told her, smiling. “I’ll be right back.” And he was, reentering Bernie, but kissing her before she could put the Range Rover in gear. As they pulled out onto the highway, in the light of the phone booth, Donna saw the ragged gash the grey turtleneck had sustained. She shuddered at the thought of what could have happened to her lover’s neck.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the parents

Donna soon turned in at a stone-pillared gate, a gravel drive that wound toward a house on a hill, covered by trees. To the north sat a barn and paddock, with a field strewn with jumps behind it. The house was stolid English country-style, with an air of pompous show that argued self-made money. Donna pulled around so that she was near the barn, headed out, next to an Aston-Martin and a white MG.

  
“Okay, lover,” said Donna, swallowing nervously. “Here we go.”

  
He chuckled and got out, meeting her at the trailer to let Tim out.

  
“Donna!” shouted someone from the house. “Donna, why didn’t you call? Put Tim up and come have breakfast.”

  
“The dragon is awake, sir knight,” the girl muttered to him as Tim backed out. “Gird thy loins and draw thy sword.”

  
Donna let Tim out into the grassy pasture for the moment, and led her fiancé into the family home. Inside, they might have been in the English lowlands. Donna went resolutely to the breakfast nook-cum-kitchen, the Phantom on her heels, surprised to find himself a little nervous. It was only Donna’s parents, he reminded himself.

  
“Mummy, Daddy?” she called. “There’s someone here I want you to meet.”

  
“Really?” said a gruff male voice, followed by the sound of a chair scraping across the wooden floor. “Who?”

  
Upon entering the sunny room, the pair found a stout lady in a flowered print dress frozen in the act of setting another place at the table. Beside her stood a tall, spare man with gray hair and the look of decisiveness on his face. Both appeared astonished, though Donna’s father had more experience maintaining his dignity than her mother, and recovered more quickly.

  
“Mummy, Daddy,” she said firmly, “this is Kit Walker. We’re getting married in three weeks. In Bengalla, where we’re going to live.” She looked at her fiancé, who seemed to be doing his best to imitate a stone. “Kit, these are my mother and father, Rose and Geoffrey McLaren.”

  
“My goodness, Donna,” her father exclaimed. “This is rather sudden, isn’t it? Not that I’m objecting, young man, but I’ve never heard her speak of you before.”

  
“We only met a week ago, at the Ashburton show,” the Phantom told him, shaking his hand firmly. “She’s a wonderful girl. You must be very proud of her.” He let go of Geoffrey McLaren’s hand and took the unresisting one of Donna’s mother. His lips brushed it in a kiss, despite the spoon it held. She blushed and snatched it from him to scurry about setting yet another place. She was, for the moment, to Donna’s relief, not objecting.

  
“Are you a show rider?” asked the older man, not quite disapproving. Donna had done quite well, as far as looks, he admitted to himself, taking in the size and sheer presence of the man.

  
“No, I was there investigating the fire,” the Phantom said truthfully. “Although, I do ride, and raise horses, in Bengalla.”

  
“Tim likes him, Daddy,” Donna said almost defensively. “And I love him.”

  
“Well, of course you do, dear,” said her mother from the table. “Come sit down to breakfast and tell us all about yourself, Kit. Do you like tea, juice or coffee?”

  
“Whatever you’re having is fine,” the Phantom said politely, holding Donna’s chair for her, then taking the seat next to her. “We’ve been driving all night, and haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.”

  
“My dears, you’ll make yourselves sick,” exclaimed the motherly woman, horrified. “I’ll bring you something right away. Donna, how could you just starve yourselves like that?”

  
“We’re in a hurry, Mummy,” said Donna impatiently. “All Tim’s tack, and a lot of mine, went up in smoke with the fire. Most of Kit’s stuff, too. I’m only here long enough to load a saddle, pad, girth and his old travel gear, and we’re off to the airport. Kit has a chartered transport waiting to fly us to Mawitaan.”

  
“You can’t fly to Bengalla on an empty stomach,” her mother retorted. “Tim’s got fed on the way, I suppose, but not you or your young man. I’m sure I wouldn’t marry you, if you treated me like that.”

  
“Where do you live in Bengalla?” asked Donna’s father, curiously, although he’d hardly heard of the place before that moment. “And what do you do?”

  
“I live in the Deep Woods, outside of Mawitaan,” said the Phantom, neglecting to say just how far outside the capital. “I run the family business, and sometimes I work as a special agent to the President. And I administer the Walker Foundation and settle tribal disputes when necessary.”

  
“Really,” said the patriarch, feeling a little better about this impressive young man. “And how big is this ‘Deep Woods’ place? Have you owned it long?”

  
“My family has lived there for hundreds of years,” said the dark-haired giant. “It’s small, for a country, but covers several hundred square miles, much of it jungle.”

  
“Miles?” repeated the older man, stunned. “I say, did you say ‘miles’?”

  
“Yes,” smiled the Phantom. “It includes some coastline, several rivers, a few mines, that kind of thing. Plenty of room for Tim, which was one of the things that Donna was concerned with.”

  
Rose McLaren had outdone herself with pancakes and sausages, eggs and bacon, set before them in what seemed like moments. The scent made Donna’s stomach growl loudly, and he looked fondly at her, knowing that she couldn’t have eaten the night before, and why.

  
“And do you have any connections in the business world, son?” Geoffrey McLaren asked, trying out the title, taking only a piece of toast and a slice of bacon. “Financial interests, stocks, that sort of thing?”

  
“Mmm,” said the Phantom, around a piece of sausage, swallowing quickly, though he would have preferred to chew it a little longer. “Well, my sister owns Altair, Incorporated. I think I own a few shares of that. You have no need to worry about my providing for your daughter, sir. If she wants to have Tim shod in gold, she can do it.”

  
“That’s mighty generous of you, Kit,” said the older man, surprised. “I don’t know if the horse should be quite that spoiled, though.”

  
“I wouldn’t do that,” sniffed Donna, after wolfing down a pancake. “Gold’s too heavy, and it doesn’t wear well. I just want a new saddle. Kit already got me a new bridle, so beautiful it made me cry.”

  
“As Tim got the both of us out of a burning barn,” the Phantom said, swallowing more juice, “I’m inclined to indulge him and his rider. I’ll buy her a store full of saddles and get Tim his own bakery, if that makes Donna happy. I have no worries about whether Donna can take care of herself, either. Your daughter is quite a woman, sir, and I’m lucky to have her.”

  
“She’s always been, well, headstrong, independent, and able to get out of any scrape she got into,” nodded Geoffrey McLaren, watching the young giant eat. It was like stoking a furnace, he reflected, the flames burning brighter even as he watched.

  
“I’m always getting into and out of tight spots myself,” said the Phantom with a smile. “Maybe we’ll mellow each other.”

  
“Throw oil on the fire, is more like,” said Rose McLaren, setting down more toast. “Why must you go all the way to Bengalla to get married, dear? None of our friends will be able to come. Do you have a good Episcopal minister there? Don’t you need shots first, and a license? And Kit, dear, do take off your glasses, and stay awhile.”

  
“We can’t stay, Mummy,” Donna said patiently. “A huge airplane has been waiting for us at the airport. Kit called them from Wellington. You know how much it cost for us to go to Australia, with a bunch of other horses. This is just for us. And Kit’s not supposed to take off his glasses, he got hurt in the fire.”

  
“The President of Bengalla will be performing the ceremony,” the Phantom added, having begun on his second helping. “He’s a very good friend of mine. I don’t suppose I’ll need a license for that.”

  
“The President?” gasped Rose, astonished. “My word, I suppose not. Goodness me.”

  
“I’m going to send invitations out for twenty-three days from today,” the Phantom told them seriously. “Please be in Mawitaan on the second, and I’ll have someone meet you. They may look a little uncivilized, but no harm will come to you, I promise. Go with anyone who shows you this symbol.” He showed them the ring on his left hand, with the strange crossed saber design.

  
“Oh, and please, use this for your tickets,” he put a small suede pouch on the table. “I’m afraid I don’t have much currency left on me, and the banks have been closed all night. Sam Baker has a running tab with me, so the airfare’s been taken care of for us, but Bernie needs gas again.” He set to work on his food and Rose poked the bag doubtfully. She undid the drawstring and poured a shiny pile of pebbles onto the oak table. Colorful bits of light skittered around the plates and cups, rolling under napkins and behind the salt shaker.

  
“Oh, my goodness,” she squeaked, as half a million pounds of gemstones sparkled on her breakfast table. “Are they real?”

  
“Oh, yes,” mumbled Kit, his eyes on his convulsing fiancée. “I did mention the mines, didn’t I?”

  
Donna was snorting with laughter and pointing at her mother, in danger of swallowing something wrong. Her father seemed quite taken aback, not quite believing what he was seeing. Geoffrey McLaren had had the idea that such a variety of stones did not come from such close proximity to each other.

  
“But, Kit, dear, that’s a great deal of money,” objected Rose McLaren, eyes like saucers in her face. “Far more that a pair of plane tickets. I’d think those two opals alone would do for that.”

  
“Then think of it as a bride gift,” the Phantom suggested. “Sort of in exchange for stealing such a beautiful, talented, competent, intelligent, wonderful woman away from you.”

  
“Well, you’re in love, alright,” snorted the executive. “Any suggestions for a wedding gift?”

  
“You being there will be enough,” said the younger man, eyeing the last piece of toast hungrily. “I do hope you aren’t drinkers. The wedding will not have alcohol of any kind. In that respect, the Deep Woods are dry. Too many problems in the past, you see.”

  
“I’ll make you some more, shall I, dear?” said Rose, seeing his look. “And perhaps a snack for your trip. Donna, go get what needs packing, and we’ll see that he doesn’t, er, escape.”

  
Donna, sated, kissed her lover briefly and bounced out of the house to put Tim’s old tack trunk into the trailer next to the sadly shrunken bale of hay. Battered, but solid, the box contained older brushes, plainer tack, her old scuffed saddle, a bridle that had been mended several times, a patched rug to fly in, and bandages for the gelding’s legs. Then she ran up to her room to get the few things she wanted to take to her new life. They all fit in one small bag, and she tossed that into Bernie’s rear seat.

  
“Sorry to do this to you, Tim,” she told the big bay, as she led him to the trailer again. “In a day or so, it’ll all be over, I promise.”

  
“Ready, dearest?” said that velvet voice in her ear, and she started, but leaned into those strong arms. “I’m ready if you are.”

  
“Get in, Tim,” she commanded, and closed the trailer up. “What’ll we do with Bernie and the trailer?”

  
“I’m coming along, Donna,” said her father, having had a quick word with his secretary over the telephone. He strode down the walk, pulling on his coat. “I’ll bring back Bernie and the trailer for you. It hasn’t been so long that I don’t remember how to drive the cursed thing.”

  
“Daddy, Bernie hates you,” said Donna, quite seriously, even as the Phantom climbed into the back seat, leaving the front passenger seat to Geoffrey McLaren. He could lean against Donna’s seat and watch her father. “You treat him like a car, and he resents it.”

  
“It’s only a machine, dear,” chided her father. “I suppose that you’re going to tell me it likes Kit, here.”

  
“I was asleep in the back when he drove onto the ferry at Blenheim, and didn’t wake up until past Levin,” Donna told him, starting down the drive. “I’d have been up before that with you driving.”

  
“Mmm, so you would,” admitted the older man. The Phantom saw where Donna got her body type and strong facial structure, as he watched Geoffrey McLaren from behind his dark glasses. “But we’ll get back in one piece.”

  
“We’ll need to stop for petrol up here,” Donna told her men, pulling into the station. “Else you’ll not be getting back home, anyway, Daddy.”

  
“Here, darling,” said the man in the back, handing her his last two New Zealand twenty dollar notes. “The rest are all hundreds.”

  
Donna was in a hurry by now, so the attendant was surprised to be left with the change. Donna pulled out and took the road that led to Auckland’s airport, morning traffic beginning to thicken just a little.

  
“You know, Kit,” said Donna’s father as they drove on, coming soon to Manukau, “tipping isn’t done very often in New Zealand. Even if you are fabulously wealthy, you should just pay what everyone else does. Why should you pay more?”

  
“I don’t like to carry change,” the Phantom said, thinking about how impossible it would be to move silently with a pocketful of coins. “I’ll never notice the difference, and someone else might. I don’t often use money at home.”

  
“Everything done through your accountants?” assumed the businessman. “Not how I raised Donna, you know.”

  
“Look in the glove box, Daddy,” she said to him, still smiling at her mother’s expression over the jewels. The open compartment brimmed with coins and small bills. “I don’t give it away, but I had to clean out my gloves and the spare leathers. My purse is full.”

  
“I daresay I could fill old Bernie a few times with that lot and still get him tuned,” grumbled Geoffrey. “You’re going to need my little girl, Kit, if only to keep you solvent. Mind she doesn’t spend it all on her horse.”

  
“Daddy, I’m not wasteful,” protested Donna. “I just have other priorities. Such as, how do I get to the airport with that mess in the way?”

A road crew was industriously digging up a section of street, and Donna had to edge around the group. She finally got to the airport, but it was tedious, concentrated driving. She ignored her men in favor of getting there without throwing Tim off his feet with any sudden maneuvers.

  
“About those stones, my boy,” the elder McLaren said casually. “Would it bother you if the missus had a few gewgaws made of ‘em? She’s always loved a bit of sparkle, like a magpie, she is.”

  
“They’re yours, sir,” the Phantom told him without interest. “Do as you please. Plenty more where that came from. Do you know if Donna wears jewelry? What kind of stone she likes?”

  
“Always liked the sapphires best, I think,” recalled her father. “Doesn’t wear much, but likes to look at ‘em. Much rather have a little horse gear than jewelry or clothes, to the despair of her mother, ever since she was little. Rather a bit of German silver than a bit of silver for herself, if you see what I mean.”

  
“Mmm, I noticed that,” murmured the Phantom, watching the airport entry approaching. “And what size saddle does she use?”

  
“Seventeen inch,” said Donna from the front seat. “Do I go where it says ‘cargo’?”

  
Eventually, with several false turns, they made it to the waiting Baker Air warbird, an old, but well kept B-17. With a speed and service that left the older McLaren gaping, Tim was loaded, the trailer and Bernie stripped of luggage and tack. Only the most respectful of remarks were addressed to ‘Mr. Walker,’ and in mere minutes he was hugging his daughter and new son-in-law and waving farewell. The plane fired up and moved out as if some urgent business required it elsewhere, roaring into the sky just minutes after it started up.

  
Aboard the old bomber, with Tim calmly munching hay, the Phantom again wore his hood and mask, shorts, tights and boots. His gunbelt circled his waist, and though the turtleneck was gray, it was not too strange to the eyes used to seeing him in costume. Amid a nest of hay and the things from Bernie, Donna smiled through her tears at him. He sat next to her and took her in his lap, holding her gently and drying her tears. She fell asleep in his arms and he was comfortable enough to keep her there. That was how Mandy Baker found them when she came back to check on them.

  
The Ghost Who Walks, with an unknown woman held in his arms, smiled up at her, and the girl knew the truth from that smile. This was love, between these two, and the Phantom loved true, Mandy was sure. Well, plenty of other fish in the sea, if none quite so fine as this one, she thought. With some sympathy in her heart for the woman who slept, Mandy spread a wool coverlet over them both. He nodded his thanks, and she patted the horse and went back to the cockpit.

  
“Looks like he found the right girl, Pop,” she told her own father, who had them on course for home. “Wedding bells soon enough, from the looks of things. What do you get him for a wedding present?”

  
“Well, ‘bout time,” grinned the old pilot, a man of grizzled, portly appearance. Muscle and bone lay thick beneath his skin, however, and age had only slowed him. “She the one with the horse?”

  
“Yeah,” his daughter answered, putting her headphones back on and taking the controls. “Go on back and take a look, Pop. Looks like they had a rough trip up, so don’t wake ‘em.”

  
“Don’t get all motherly on me, Mandy,” he said, unstrapping himself from his seat. “I won’t wake ‘em. Gotta see that Chuck did the horse’s stall up right, though, don’t I?”

  
By the time he had made his way back to the cargo area, both of his passengers were asleep, Donna curled up on the Phantom with her head on his chest. His booted feet were thrust out into the walkway, but Sam stepped carefully over them, and examined every piece of the portable stall and the other materials in place. He tidied up a lot of the things the ground crew had left laying around, watched only by the calmly munching horse.

  
“You’re a nice fella,” he murmured, certain the engine noise would cover his voice from the sleeping couple. He stroked the nose Tim thrust at him and patted the silky neck. “Mandy’s right, I gotta think about what to give ‘em. A horse they don’t need, nor a plane, certainly can buy what they need. Maybe one of those electrical generators, hmm, gas powered. Or maybe periodic oat deliveries, eh?”

  
“We’ll have to talk about it, Mandy, but you sure seem right about them. Depends on how soon the wedding is, or if they already had it.” He put on his headset again and sat back in his seat, his daughter still in control.

  
“Books, a new shortwave,” suggested his daughter, not sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing that the Phantom had not fallen for her. “Fly ‘em somewhere they can be alone?”

  
“That never works for the Phantom, honey,” the old pilot told her. “Soon as we do that, they’ll run across a nest of smugglers, or pirates, or something. And they’ll be on their own, too. No, if I’ve got her right, she’ll be in the thick of things, like you, and scare him half to death. Maybe we can ferry guests in with the seaplane for ‘em, if they ain’t had the actual wedding yet.”

  
“Taxi service?” mused Mandy, wondering if she might hook a fish from that school. “Not a bad idea, Pop.”

  
“Kinda too bad he didn’t pick you, Mandy,” her father sympathized, having been well aware of how his daughter felt about the masked giant. “But you find enough trouble on your own, I’m thinking. The Phantom attracts trouble like a magnet, and with you it’d just escalate to disasters. Not even the Ghost Who Walks can fix hurricanes, earthquakes, volcanoes and that sort of thing routinely.”

  
“I s’pose you’re right, Pop,” sighed Mandy. “But, man, what a body. Did you notice he’s not wearing his normal shirt? And what he is wearing is torn out at the throat. Was I to guess, I’d say he got hurt, bad enough to trash the shirt. Body trauma, at least.”

  
“Well, he’s never been the kind to stay out of a fight,” her father conceded. “Maybe we’ll get the story out of ‘em before we land. Can’t sleep all the way to Bengalla.” But they almost did.

  
A hand on the Phantom’s shoulder woke him, and he saw the sympathetic look on Sam Baker’s craggy face. His movement roused Donna, as well, who stretched and snuggled further into his arms. Tim snorted and nodded his head at them, unconcerned with noise and movement, for his human had been in sight the whole flight.

  
“Starting our turn into Mawitaan, Kit,” the pilot told him. “You and the young lady got any further plans from here out?”

  
“Can you keep this stuff at your offices until I can arrange to have it picked up?” he asked, moving Donna off of his lap. She sighed and opened her eyes, blinking to see someone’s shoes. Looking up, she saw the veteran pilot and sat up abruptly. “Oh, and there’s a wedding in twenty-three days, on the fourth. You’re both invited. We haven’t quite decided if we’re having it at Keelawee or the Deep Woods.”

  
“The beach,” said Donna, rubbing her eyes. “Less trouble for everyone. You must be Sam Baker. I’m Donna McLaren, the intended.”

  
“Pleased to meet you, Miss McLaren,” said the pilot, taking her hand briefly as the plane began to bank. “We’ll be there on time, don’t you worry. Any one you want flown in, let us know. From the feel of it, we’re about ten minutes away from landing. I better make sure Mandy doesn’t forget we got a horse aboard.”

  
“How do we get to your home, Kit?” asked Donna, feeling the plane level and descend as the older man left. “Just ride Tim double? Is it far?”

  
“We only need to get to the edge of town, dear,” he told her, his hand stroking her hair. “That’s where Hero and Devil are waiting for me. Toma and his family take care of them for me while I’m gone. They’ll come to get your things, and send them on to the Deep Woods later.”

  
“Good, I’m dying for a ride,” she said, standing up and again stretching. “I’ll saddle Tim now, and we can go as soon as we hit the ground. And somewhere I’ll have to find a shower. Eventually.”

  
“We don’t want to hang around the airport too long,” he told her, stretching himself. She found it a most sensual sight. “If we do, we’ll have to answer questions, and I don’t feel like it, not with home so close.”

  
“Then we’ll be gone before they know we’re there,” Donna vowed, opening her tack trunk and slapping the saddle pad on Tim and the old Steuben saddle right after. She put on the girth and bridle as they were landing, the big bay cooperating as if he wanted to help. The rug was folded up and the Phantom packed it in the trunk with the travel wraps even as they rolled to a stop next to the Baker Air hangers.

  
“My, you’re in a hurry,” Mandy Baker said as she opened the cargo door, revealing a wide wooden ramp being rolled into place by the ground crew. “Congratulations, both of you. Chosen your colors for the wedding, yet? I don’t want to clash with anything.”

  
“How about if you’re my bridesmaid?” suggested Donna, grinning. “You’d look fabulous in lavender or even in mint green silk. Say ‘yes,’ please?”

  
“Why, sure,” said the petite girl in surprise. “But no one’s even introduced us.”

  
“Hmph,” said the Phantom as he took down the gate of Tim’s stall. “Mandy Baker, pilot and martial arts expert, meet Donna McLaren, horsewoman and mistress of many skills. I told her all about you, Mandy.”

  
“Lies, mostly,” shrugged the girl dismissively, a sparkle of mischief in her dark eyes. “Or, rather, since he never lies, a very edited version of the truth, I’m sure. I’ll tell you my version someday.”

  
“Deal, Mandy,” said Donna, as the Phantom tightened Tim’s girth and handed her the reins. She called over her shoulder as she led the bay down the steep ramp, “get there a few days early and we’ll swap stories.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travel thru the jungle, meet the Llongo

The Phantom shook his head and followed the bay’s black tail down the slope of wood. The ground crew stared and pointed at the Phantom as he vaulted onto Tim’s back behind Donna. At a walk, the bay paced sedately off into the brush, following the Phantom's directions as passed through Donna. All the people they passed stared and made some gesture of respect, and were waved to by the Ghost Who Walks.

  
“It’s like you’re the Queen,” laughed Donna as they came to a place that had a corral and several thatched mud brick buildings. A ringing neigh came from the corral and a huge white stallion sailed over the fence to canter toward them. “Wow, Hero, I presume.”

  
The Phantom slid from the bay’s back to pat the gleaming neck, and be nuzzled by the soft nose. A young man appeared at the entry of the house, with several small children and a young girl, and all smiled and waved to the Phantom, calling out in a language Donna didn’t speak. The man went to a building by the corral and emerged with the stallion’s tack in his arms, a pair of small boys running, heedless of hooves, with brushes for the spotless hide.

  
Gravely, the Phantom accepted a brush and gave a few strokes to the broad back before handing it back to the smallest boy. The other child had been vigorously swiping away as high as he could reach, to the point of Hero’s elbow, Donna judged. With care and speed both, the magnificent animal was saddled and bridled, the tack of black leather and silver fittings. A bark announced another personage, who flung himself into the mess of children, horses and adults. Toma wisely got his children and retreated, while Devil, the wolf, yapped and capered to see his master again. Donna dismounted, and Tim stood with his head cocked, watching curiously.

  
“Donna, this is Toma, my friend, and Hero’s groom,” the giant said, waving Toma back, without children. “Toma, this is Donna, who is to be my wife. Twenty-three days from now, be at the beach of Keelawee for the wedding.”

  
“Yes, O Ghost Who Walks,” said the young man, bowing to Donna. His accent was deeply British. “I will be honored. My home is yours, Lady Donna, as it is the Phantom’s.”

  
“Why, thank you, Toma,” Donna said, bowing a little herself, as she had got used to doing in Japan. “You will be welcome at our wedding.”

  
“My wife is getting food and water for you, O Ghost Who Walks, if you wait a few moments,” the young man said deferentially.

  
“Of course, Toma, thank you,” said the masked giant, tightening Hero’s girth. “And Donna, this is Hero, my horse. Let him smell you, he won’t bite.”

  
“Naturally not,” said Donna, letting the stallion nose her hand, then caressing his silken neck. In moments she had found the great beast’s itchy spot, under the long mane. Hero stretched his neck and lip in pleasure at her touch, stamping and shaking his head when she stopped. “Don’t be greedy, Hero. If I spend too long doing that, Tim will be jealous.”

  
“Lady Donna,” Toma ventured, “would you like to see where Hero lives when his master is away? You might need to use it someday for your own horse.”

  
“If you don’t mind, dear?” asked Donna of her fiancé. “I’ll be right back. Tim, stay.”

  
“I’ll let the two horses get to know each other,” the Phantom said with a smile. “You can meet Devil when you come back.”

  
After they were in the cool, shaded corral, Toma asked the question he had been struggling to keep inside, lest it insult the Phantom.

  
“Lady,” he said quietly, aware of how keen the ears of his patron were, “why does the Ghost Who Walks wear a gray shirt and not his customary one?”

  
“Well, first he was shot in the back,” Donna said, looking into the well-kept tack room, hung with spare gear and equipment. “Then he got knifed pretty badly, in the fire, and the shirt was just rags. Even the one he’s got on is torn, since that werewolf tried to cut his throat. Hard on clothes, he is. Is there a chance you could make a spot for my horse’s tack?”

  
“Oh, honored lady,” exclaimed Toma. “I will do so immediately. Does your horse need to be separated from Hero?”

  
They were walking back outside, finding the Phantom hanging cloth bags across Donna’s saddle, and already having fixed the heavier water gourds to his own.

  
“No, they seem to get along fine,” he said, tying a last string to the saddle’s D-ring. “Devil, here boy.”

  
The wolf was at his feet in an instant, tongue lolling as he was petted. Donna knelt and put out her hand, sniffed with great attention, then licked with enthusiasm. Donna, daringly, scratched deep in the ruff of his neck and he lunged into her arms, knocking her down and licking her face as she laughed.

  
“Devil, manners,” sighed the Phantom, pleased that Devil liked her. “Let her up, boy.”

  
“Like master, like wolf,” giggled Donna as he gave her one last swipe of his tongue, before letting her up. “Is he usually all that friendly?”

  
“Not usually that much,” admitted the masked giant as Devil whined and capered between them like a puppy. Donna used her shirt to mop her face somewhat. “He likes children, but usually adults get more stand-offish treatment.”

  
“Are you ready?” she asked, brushing off her jeans, and taking Tim’s reins back. The Phantom took a few twigs out of her hair and brushed off her back.

  
“Now, we’re ready,” he told her, vaulting into the saddle. Hero stood like a statue as he gathered up the black reins. Donna mounted Tim and looked back at Toma.

  
“See you at the wedding, Toma!” she said as the Phantom turned Hero into the jungle and Tim followed. Soon they were lost from sight and Toma felt able to express his feelings. He raised his head and cried out in celebration, capering almost as Devil had, dancing as if already at a wedding feast. His family came out to see what was causing his loud cries, and as he chanted the news, they, too, danced and shouted. One of the boys was sent to the nearest drummer with the news, and soon the jungle was throbbing with the tale.

  
“Uh oh,” the Phantom said to Donna as they trotted down a trail through the tangled greenery. “Toma’s got the news out. We’re an item.”

  
“You mean, like telegraphs used to be?’ asked Donna, hearing the noise above the beat of hooves and the screech of birds and monkeys. “The drums are telling people that we’re getting married?”

  
“Yep,” he told her, as the two horses leapt a fallen log in perfect tandem. “By midnight, half of Bengalla will know. I’m afraid you are the answer to quite a few worries the Chiefs and the Bandar had. You said it was like being with the Queen, before, now you’re really going to see something. If we go near any villages on the way, that is.”

  
“Do we have to?” she asked, feeling the humidity in the air. “I mean, does the road have to go through anyone’s village, or does it just go where you make a path?”

  
“This road is only here because it goes to the Clinic at Dr. Axel’s place,” he told her, catching glimpses of the tropical afternoon sky. “We’ll have to stop somewhere, since it’s going to be night soon. I’d keep going, if it were just us old jungle hands, but Tim might not be very happy about it.”

  
“Nor his rider,” agreed Donna, patting the warm neck. “How long until we reach the Deep Woods, if we keep going?”

  
“The same as if we stop, really,” he said, ducking a low branch. “About two days constant riding. It’s not really worth travelling at night in the jungle, because you have to go so slowly that you end up having more trouble than you can handle. Leopards, for instance, love to jump on you from trees.”

  
“Stopping for the night is suddenly very high on my list,” Donna decided hastily. “We don’t really have much to hurry for, after all, do we?”

  
“No, we can stay with the Llongo tribe tonight,” he told her, admiring the way her hair looked with water droplets sparkling in it like diamonds as they crossed a wide stream. “They’re very well off, and a large tribe. The President, my friend Lamanda Luaga, is of their tribe, which adds considerably to their prestige. You can hear their drums now, the slightly deeper ones.”

  
They cantered past a palisade of logs, and onto a much narrower trail. The road had gone into the compound, which a sign in English declared to be ‘Dr. Axel, M.D., Free Clinic.’ A few pedestrians shouted happy greetings as they passed, throwing flowers at Donna, which mostly missed. Flattered, she caught one or two, kissed them and flung them back, gone before the people could snatch up the favored blossoms like souvenir hunters at a parade.

  
Single file, now, they again trotted, soon coming to wide fields of taro, rice, beans and corn, well watered and green. Beyond lay the wooden walled village of the Llongo people, many of whom, on their way home after work in the fields or forest, turned to shout welcomes. Walking on the narrow paths between the fields, so as not to step on anyone’s toes or crops, they were quickly surrounded by laughing, dancing villagers.

  
Soon the tall, handsome people were jumping up and down in unison, chanting or singing, Donna couldn’t decide which. It was beautiful, rhythmic music, even if she couldn’t understand the words. Many of the women, dressed in bright colored head cloths and sarongs, waved flowers and leafy branches, and formed a sort of path and a guard toward the village gates. It seemed to Donna that hundreds of people were all dancing around them, and singing as well as any well-rehearsed chorus. She wondered where they had learned such beautiful harmonies, and their voices were magnificent.

  
“What are they singing, Kit?” she asked over the lead singer, a man in a green kilt.

  
“It’s a wedding song,” he answered, almost drowned out by the chorus, being reinforced by more people as they got nearer to the village gates. “I told you everyone knew.”

  
A dignified group awaited them at the gate, three older men and their wives, Donna assumed. Several wore gold ornaments, and the women wore elaborate, decorated outfits that made Donna rather wish she could get away with such colors. The central figure, a man who leaned on a spear twined with flowering vines, stepped forward with one hand raised in greeting. The dancers all came to a momentary pause and waited, surely, Donna thought, catching their breath. The Chief bowed to the two riders and spoke a brief sentence or two of the same language the singers had used. Then he straightened up and switched to perfectly understandable English, a politeness that Donna deeply appreciated, vowing to learn new languages as soon as possible.

  
“Welcome to our village, O Ghost Who Walks,” he began, “and to your bride-to-be. We will feast tonight in your honor, and rejoice in your happiness as if it were our own.”

  
“Thank you, Chief Lagana,” said the Phantom, dismounting. “We are honored by your welcome. We have traveled far today, and my betrothed is not used to riding through the jungle at night. If we could stay the night, it would ease our journey.”

  
Donna followed his lead and slid to the ground. Tim nosed a grassy frond near his head experimentally. The old chief said something to his people that made them laugh.

  
“Phantom, our village is yours, and your woman’s,” he said, smiling broadly. “Our guest house is at your service, and a place for your horses is ready. When you leave us, you will know how much we enjoy our visitors!”

  
“You are very kind, Chief Lagana,” smiled the Phantom. “If you will allow me to tend to the horses first, I will join you in the plaza.”

  
“My wife will see to your lady’s comfort, old friend,” the Chief assured him. “As well as every other woman who can get out of cooking, I expect. May we know the honored lady’s name?”

  
“Donna McLaren,” the Phantom said clearly, taking his beloved’s hand. “My old friend, Chief Lagana, leader of the Llongo tribe. His head wife, Millani, who was born Mori.”

  
Donna bowed deeply, suspecting that a curtsy, even if she could manage a good one, would look silly in jeans and boots among all these graceful dancers.

  
“Donna, if you please, sir,” she smiled at them all. “And thank you for your hospitality.”

  
“Millani, my wife, speaks your language well,” the straight old man said, gesturing the stately woman forward. “Go with her and she will show you a place to bathe and prepare for the feast.”

  
“I’ll see you after I take care of the horses,” the Phantom told her. “Go on, they’ve got a hot spring bathhouse.”

  
That was all that needed to be said to Donna. The women began dancing and singing again, led by the chiefess and her charge, and made their way through the village. Donna tried in vain to imitate the dancer’s up-and-down bounce, to their delight. They came to a sort of inner compound, behind a low stone wall, containing several stone buildings. There were many open-sided wooden buildings, much like pavilions, as well, and two that looked like solid structures. Into one of the stone buildings the group led, the headwoman shouting something at the dancers that scattered most of them. Some stayed, apparently also chief wives of important men, and entered the low stone building with them.

  
“Lady Donna,” said the regal old lady slowly. “This is bathhouse, women use now. Men use later. We all clean together. I tell my sister wives to bring you clean clothes for feast, for sleep. You need those wash?”

  
“Will they be dry by morning?” asked Donna of the chiefess. “I’ll have to ride in them tomorrow.”

  
“Set by fire,” shrugged the old lady expressively. “Mostly dry. Take off, come bathe.”

  
Donna stripped with no further hesitation, as all the other women had done. A young girl bore the articles to another pool in the roofed area and began to soak and scrub them. The whole bathhouse was a covered hot spring, and the place where everyone was sitting, mildly warm, not boiling. Donna settled into the circle of bathers with a smile of relaxation. She rinsed her hair and face, then let the water soak her. The others did the same, then nudged a few women and muttered to each other. Donna politely ignored this. The Chiefess, eventually elected spokeswoman, cleared her throat and finally spoke.

  
“Lady Donna,” she began, “my sisters ask to know how you meet the Ghost Who Walks. And they ask of the strange shirt he wears. Will you say to us this?”

  
“Oh, sure,” said Donna, hoping this was going to get through the translation. “We met in New Zealand, far south across the ocean. My horse was in a house that evil men tried to burn. The Phantom had chased them to my country because they burned a building in Mawitaan that killed people.” She stopped often to let the older lady translate to the others.

  
“They shot him in the back,” she continued, to the gasps from the soaking women. “But he kept them from killing me or my horse. I took out the bullets for him. There were many holes in his shirt.” The ladies nodded understandingly.

  
“Then the men came to burn the house that many horses were in, mine too, again. He fought with them, and threw them off the roof, even though he was stabbed here.” She showed them the place, and on her it looked rather close to the heart, especially to her rapt audience.

  
“The roof fell on him,” she continued, drawing more gasps at this translation. “I dragged him out and my horse carried us to safety. But he was dead.”

  
Cries of horror greeted this statement, and the old Mori woman had made her repeat it before she translated it. The others made Millani repeat herself several times, as well.

  
“I didn’t want him to die,” she told them, swallowing in memory. “I kissed him, and he began to breathe again. I think it was the smoke.”

  
The women nodded in satisfaction, sure in their own hearts that the kiss had brought him back. She was destined for the Phantom, it was obvious. And how romantic it was, too.

  
“Even though he lived, he was bleeding too much. I took him to my camp and sewed him up. But his shirt was too badly ruined.” Nods greeted this. “He asked me to marry him before I stitched him up. I said ‘yes.’” The women nodded again, for what woman would refuse the Phantom, in any condition?

  
“He got better, but I couldn’t find him another shirt in his color,” she told them. “Grey was the best I could do. It was lucky that the shirt was so full at the neck.” The whole pool, even the girl doing laundry, hung on her every word, even those who didn’t understand her. “A woman who thought she was a wolf tried to cut his throat. I took care of her.”

  
All exclaimed in satisfaction, delighted with the story. A heroine to match the Ghost Who Walks for certain, they decided. A warrior princess, as in the legends, fighting a wolf-woman. It wasn’t right that she was unarmed, some muttered, she should be able to help the Phantom at need.

  
“You have honored us with your tale,” the chiefess said, rising. “We will remember. Come, we let men have water soon.”

  
The rough-looking cloth they dried with was not rough at all, to Donna’s surprise, and then the ladies had a field day dressing her in bright cloth. In a different building, one with mats for sides, they held up each dress and headcloth, and though they were all soon dressed, each argued a different outfit for her. Millani vetoed the headcloth right away, pointing out that Donna’s hair was quite pretty, no need to cover it up. At last, Donna had them all hold up a dress in a circle around her, closed her eyes and spun on her heel until dizzy, finger outstretched. Opening her eyes as she staggered to a stop amid laughter and shouts of excitement, she found herself destined to wear a brilliant blue with yellow and white triangles woven into it, and edged with green. She was pleased with the effect, and with the way her fiancé smiled at her as they entered the dance area.

  
“You look beautiful, Donna,” he told her, taking her in his arms and kissing her. More than a few of the women sighed with sentimental satisfaction. The men elbowed each other and grinned, for their wives would expect them to fulfill their romantic fantasies that night.

  
“The horses are fine, before you ask. Hero seems happy to have a friend. Devil is on guard in case of any predators, so don’t worry about them. Are you in the mood for this?"

  
“When in Rome, darling,” she replied, kissing him back. “And I am hungry, and I slept all the way up here on the plane. They’re awfully nice, the ladies here. I had to tell them how we met and why you’re wearing that shirt.”

  
“Why?” he asked mildly, steering her to the place of honor by the Chief. “I mean, why am I wearing it?”

  
“I told then that first you got shot in the back, then knifed, then a burning roof fell on you and you died, which you did, sort of, and that when I kissed you, you came back to life. But the shirt was pretty much destroyed. They understood, I’m pretty sure.”

  
“Lady Donna, whose kiss is life,” he teased, seating her. A wonderful odor assailed them and Donna began to be very hungry indeed. “Just don’t kiss any other dead bodies but mine, dear.”

  
“Not likely,” she said, smiling at him, as many elaborately dressed dancers entered the plaza, dancing a much more complicated step than the chorus earlier. They had a sort of band to one side, and several ranks of singers to help them. They did several beautifully complex dances on the hard-packed red earth, with firelight and torches shining on them. Donna found the decorations and sweaty bodies made a dazzling and hypnotic vision. She was flattered when she was told that they were welcome and bride dances. They were also the pre-dinner show, for after they had stopped, huge platters of food came in, borne by two men each, and all the village set to with a will.

  
Much of it was salad or fruits, for there had been no time for cooking whole pigs or oxen, Millani explained, though some people didn’t understand that, she added with an accusatory glance at the Chief. Only a few already cooking meat dishes had been ready, but after such a long journey, perhaps bread and fruit would suit better anyway. Donna assured the elder lady that she was quite happy with that arrangement, in between mouthfuls of exotic fruit and sweetbreads. As the village ate, now and then someone would come before them and make a little speech, which the Phantom would whisper a translation of to Donna. Most of them were simply the Llongo version of the toasts at wedding receptions that Donna had been to in New Zealand.

  
Then the real dancing and celebrating started. First, the young men, in semi-military outfits, carrying spears and bows wound with flowers, danced a vigorous and aggressive dance that involved a great deal of athletic leaping and stabbing, as if hunting. Then the younger women danced their way in, making a beautiful, colorfully complex dance of welcome, wishing Donna a long and happy life, many sons and health. The moon rose and a very small, but elaborately costumed group danced in, and the crowd hushed. These, the Phantom whispered to his love, were the tribal shamans, witch doctors and priests. They danced a rite to bring good fortune on the couple, and then made a small speech.

  
“The chief priest asks that you come to dance with them,” Kit told her, surprised. “He wants to read your soul, he says. I’ve never heard of that. Do you want to, dear?”

  
“I’m the only one who can’t dance here,” she sighed. “But if he asks, of course. Please tell him not to expect much. I only know a few Maori dances.”

  
Donna stood up and entered the plaza, her borrowed sandals feeling tight. The Phantom said a few words to the befeathered dance leader, and the crowd laughed and clapped, sitting forward for a better view.

  
“You start the dance, Donna,” he called to her, and she swallowed nervously. The New Zealander closed her eyes and began to do a Maori feast dance, the one all the tourists learned at _hangis_. The Llongo were delighted, the drums picking up her beat, the people clapping as she danced, and the shamans politely copying her simple movements. Soon many around the dance floor were dancing in place as she was, far more gracefully, she was sure. When she came to the end of the dance, everyone shouted and cheered as if she had done something wonderful, and she blushed in the firelight as she returned to her seat.

  
“Very nice, Donna,” her fiancé told her, grinning. “I’ve never seen that one before. The Llongo will have a new dance to show off next year, I think.”

  
“I didn’t make it up,” Donna insisted, as Millani refilled her cup with fruit juice. “It’s Maori.”

  
“It was just as good as if you had,” he told her. “They love new dances here. I even saw them do the rumba once.”

  
The chief shaman gestured for attention with his bone-bedecked staff, and all was silence. He spoke gravely, with nods from his colleagues, and whispers from the crowd. At the end of his speech, sealed with a flurry of feathered staffs, many people looked, well, gratified, Donna thought.

  
“What did the _tohunga_ say?” she whispered as they cleared the dance floor for the next group.

  
“Strangely enough,” the Phantom told her with a kiss, “about the same thing your Maori friend did. Lomananda declared you to be a powerful, warrior spirit, someone with connections to higher powers. He referred to a mythical warrior queen that some of the tribes believe in, Aboma, and he suggested, but didn’t come right out and say it, that you are housing her spirit.”

  
“That’s awfully flattering, I’m sure,” Donna said, gaping at him. “How’d he decide all that from a dance?”

  
“He’s the head shaman,” shrugged the Phantom, smiling down at her. “He has his own methods, my dear. I’m not sure they’re not correct, the way you took down the Walton Ripper.”

  
“Tim did that,” Donna protested, yawning and leaning on him. “I just finished her.”

  
She didn’t see the look that passed between the old chief, his wife and the Phantom, but the dance that they were watching was the last, and the honored guests were soon shown to their roomy quarters. An elaborately decorated bed, heaped high with fabric mattresses and pillows, awaited them, and the weary pair soon used it. He lay down fully dressed, she wearing only the thin shift, laid out for her by their hosts. They slept deeply, Donna curled around her lover’s back, dreaming of dancing wolves and jungle drums.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Wambesi and the humidity

The next morning they found Donna’s clothing and a hastily made purple shirt on the low table in the outer room. Donna dressed quickly and watched as the Phantom, pleased with the gift, tried it on. Of thin cotton, the weave was good, the proportions close to perfect. A very expert tailor had done the job, to get such things right with no measurements. Donna made him remove it briefly and examined his stitches.

  
The skin was beginning to cover the nylon threads, and Donna wanted to take them out. All she had was the Phantom’s boot knife to do it with, however, and that would be messy. He told her he would rather wait until they got home, where a good set of surgical tools waited. As this was reasonable, Donna agreed, and he put the shirt back on.

  
“What do we do with the gray turtleneck?” she asked, lacing up her paddock boots over slightly damp socks.

  
“Leave it here,” he told her. “Guests are not supposed to work here. If it wasn’t for Hero, our horses would be at the door right now. No one touches Hero but me, so they’ll wait for us.”

  
“Let’s get going, then,” she said, kissing him and admiring his figure in the newly restored costume. “I’m ready to see Tim and then the world.”

  
Many people called greetings to them as they headed for their horses, which they returned politely. Donna soon learned ‘good morning’ and ‘good fortune’ in Llongo, and her attempts brought delighted grins to all who heard her. She suspected that her accent was very funny.

  
With care and speed, the two horses were saddled, though Donna found an elaborate new numnuh under her saddle, a kind of built-in pouch design for supplies. It was of brightly colored, sturdy canvas, going between her fleece pad and the saddle. It was like saddle-bags without really needing to be attached to the saddle. Flaps with tie strings closed the pouches and it fit perfectly. Donna was quite taken with it, begging the Phantom to find out who had made it. He asked the men who were guarding the gate the livestock used, but they didn’t know. Devil, it seemed, didn’t know either.

  
“Don’t worry, dear,” he laughed, ‘we won’t escape that easily. The pockets are empty, so we’ll not be allowed to leave quite yet.”

  
Sure enough, surrounded by children who practiced the same dance they had been greeted with, the two travelers were met by a large group of dignitaries at the gates.

  
“O Ghost Who Walks,” the old chief began, bowing, “and warrior-lady Donna, please accept these gifts of food and drink to ease your journey. And return to us soon to feast again in peace and happiness.” His wife, the gracious Millani, put cloth packages in Donna’s saddle pouches and hung water bags across the front.

  
“Our thanks for a very pleasant evening, Chief Lagana,” the Phantom told him, raising one hand in farewell. “We’ll see you in the Deep Woods in twenty-two days for the wedding, I hope.”

  
“I will be honored to come, old friend,” the Chief said with a broad smile. Donna cleared her throat behind the Phantom, pointedly.

  
“Oh, and Donna wants you to know that she really likes the saddle cloth thing with the food in it,” the masked giant added. “She wants to make sure that whoever made it knows she’s really pleased. And I like the shirt, too.”

  
“Those who labored shall know of your pleasure,” the dignified old chief promised as they began walking. “A peaceful journey, O Ghost Who Walks!”

  
The children followed them for a while, mostly for Devil, who played with them, but soon they were back in the jungle, and riding in silent joy. All the jungle seemed beautiful to Donna as she rode with her lover, even the snakes and insects did not bother her. Tim easily followed the white stallion, the wolf ranging ahead or behind as he chose. Tim, used to dogs, did not even turn a hair when the big wolf dodged under his belly after a small creature that Donna could not identify.

  
Birds called from invisible places high in the canopy, monkeys added to the sounds. It was fabulously exotic, and Donna was lost very quickly. She was becoming concerned about this spirit business, she admitted to herself, for gods and spirits were ever chancy things to deal with, at least in all the stories. Once was ignorable, but twice was much more worrisome. She decided not to let it bother her unless someone else told her the same thing. Three was a sacred number, after all, and no coincidence. Anyway, she was marrying into the spirit world, sort of, perhaps that explained it. She let Tim catch up to her lover on a grassy stretch beside a stream and the two thoroughbreds cantered easily even in the growing heat.

  
“Kit, dear,” she said happily, as they came to a shady grove with gigantic trees. “How many languages do I have to learn for the jungle people? I don’t want to seem unfriendly, or stupid, to your friends. They’re so nice, after all.”

  
“Oh, you can get by with two or three, if you already speak English,” he told her, watching the tall trees as they rode. “Llongo, Wambesi and Bandar would do, I think. We’re about to meet some more friends, dear. The Rope People live in the trees around here and used to be cannibals. They’ve got somewhat more civilized since great-grandfather’s time, I will say.”

  
“In the trees?” asked Donna, looking up at the forest giants they rode under. “What a good idea. They sound very clever.”

  
A shower of flowers floated down on them as they rode, followed by people, descending like spiders from the dim reaches above them. Laughing and shouting, they startled Tim, who came to a sudden halt. Snorting in alarm, he watched as they became normal two-legged humans on the ground, rather than a strange kind of fruit. Donna patted his neck to reassure him and he decided it was alright, especially as Hero was standing quietly amid the crowd. No one approached her until Tim had relaxed and come to them. A wreath of flowers was fixed around his neck, and a crown of red flowers was placed on Donna’s head.

  
“They tell me to say ‘may you be happy,’” her husband-to-be told her. “And to apologize for them for scaring Tim.”

  
“He’s just not used to it, yet,” Donna said, wondering if she would drown in flowers, they kept being added to Tim and to her. “Thanks. Can you tell them ‘thank you’ for me, please?”

  
He said something to the shouting group and it parted magically for them, letting them be on their way. Even Devil had flowers in his collar, and Hero’s tail was strung with lavender blossoms. Kit’s outfit didn’t let flowers stick to him, but he had a bright, elaborate lei around his shoulders for a while.

  
“I don’t know how much of this I can take,” she confessed as they rode out into a wide clearing. Their swift canter cleared most of the blossoms from them and their mounts. “I’ve never been a celebrity before.”

  
“You’re doing fine, Lady Donna,” he told her as they reined in for the bank of a swift stream. “They want you to feel welcome. And they don’t really have an opportunity to give me gifts very often, so you get to be the givee.”

  
“Daddy’ll give me away soon enough, I guess,” laughed Donna as Tim scrambled up the far bank. “What’s all this ‘lady’ nonsense, Kit? I’m not even one of the gentry, you know, let alone titled.”

  
“Donna means ‘lady’ in Spanish,” he reminded her, pleased with how well both Tim and his rider were holding up. “While Bengalla hasn’t been a British colony for some time, it’s still a title used to show respect. The jungle people give honor where they think it is due, not where the outer people bestow it. The Llongo welcomed you as a ‘lady’ and bade you farewell as a ‘warrior lady,’ so you impressed them pretty well. The Rope People were impressed enough to promise not to do that around Tim again, which is quite a concession for them.”

  
“Oh,” said Donna thoughtfully. “Then I can’t be ‘Donna, Queen of the Jungle,’ and run around in a leopard-skin bikini?”

  
“I like the last part,” he commented as they walked up a jungle path, single file, so she couldn’t see his grin. “There’s no ruler of the jungle, only the Council of Chiefs. They are very wise, shrewd men, and do an excellent job of running things, even though they are always asking my advice. I’m sure they are being polite, for they all know that I’m young, and so am far less experienced than they in some things.”

  
“They all know that you’re not immortal?” she asked, puzzled. “Even Chief Lagana?”

  
“Sure,” he chuckled. “Why do you think he was so happy?”

  
“He didn’t seem any happier than everyone else,” Donna pointed out.

  
“He was,” the Phantom assured her, as Hero climbed a steep pathway. “He’s not very emotional most of the time, always takes his position and dignity very seriously. I’ve never seen him smile so much in my life.”

  
“Oh,” said the woman, leaning up on the gelding’s neck to help him climb. “What’s the next whistle stop, then?”

  
“The Wambesi,” he said over his shoulder, as Hero got to the top of the hill. “I mostly just want to send invitations to those I can reach by drum, but it will be a good reason to stop for lunch.”

  
“You’re going to invite who?” she asked, as they began trotting across a wide, grassy plateau.

  
“Mostly the Council of Chiefs by drum, but a few others. When we get to Wambesi, they honor you by trying to scare you, sort of a ritual attack. Do you think Tim will be upset?”

  
“What kind of attack?” Donna asked as they let the horses stretch out into a gallop. “On foot with shouting and spears, maybe?”

  
Tim began to flatten out to match Hero’s easy pace, and Donna was impressed with the stallion’s speed. They reached the end of the meadow and pulled up to a walk.

  
“That’s what generally happens,” he agreed. “But they don’t usually do that with me. Hero and Devil are known to object to that kind of thing.”

  
“Are you familiar with the Society for Creative Anachronism?” she asked, patting Tim’s neck as he caught his breath. “It’s a mob of people who like to pretend that they’re living in the Middle Ages. Sort of like clubs.”

  
“No, but tell me about them,” he invited, pleased with the speed the bay gelding had shown, and his willingness to try to match the white.

  
“When I was still in Pony Club,” Donna told him, “I got a bunch of my mates together to help the local chapter, which is organized like a kingdom. They have people who like to dress up and have mock combats, feasts, and that sort of thing. The weapons are all padded so that no one gets hurt, but lots of horses don’t like long sticks and flags and foam rubber tubes around their heads, you see. Of course, our pony club was into sabre drill, tent pegging, jousting, so our horses and ponies rather liked it. They made us ‘mercenaries,’ and pulled us in on the annual ‘war’ they have with Hamilton, I think it was. Tim and I were the ‘heavy cavalry’ all by ourselves. If he wasn’t scared of that lot, he won’t be bothered by your Wambesi, as long as he doesn’t get hurt.”

  
“Tim jousts?” asked the Phantom, fascinated. “I mean, do you? Are you good?”

  
“Uh, you have a knife?” she asked, looking around. “I don’t have so much as a nail clipper, let alone my trail knife. Can I borrow it to cut a piece of cane?”

  
“How thick?” he asked, stopping by a stand of bamboo. “And do you want it sharp?”

  
“Oh, it needn’t be thick, less than an inch-and-a-half around should do,” she said, halting Tim. Devil flopped down in the middle of the shady trail, panting. The Phantom chose a stalk whose base was two inches around and cut it expertly. “And about six or seven feet long, the small end sharpish.”

  
In moments, as she watched and Tim tried out the vegetation, he handed her the requested stick. She hefted it experimentally as he remounted, and tried its balance. Nodding, she gestured for him to proceed, Tim following with a piece of grass hanging from his mouth. At the next open area, she had him pick targets on the ground and on bushes. Then she put Tim to a gallop, stick in hand.

  
She hit or skewered every target she had aimed at, pulling Tim to a rump-scraping stop at the end, a leaf and two fruits on her make-shift lance. She gave Tim his cue and he reared, pawing wildly, for all the world as if he were ready to attack. Hero reared a little in reply, then quieted at his master’s word. He let Hero gallop up to her, and bowed to her from the saddle.

  
“I am impressed, Donna,” he told her as she scrapped her targets from the shaft with her boot. “Or should I say ‘Sir Donna?’”

  
“Oh, don’t be too impressed, my lord Phantom,” she told him, twirling the lance like a baton in one hand. “This is no challenge, it weighs almost nothing. A real lance, that’s what takes skill to use. I’m not so good with one of those. Sometimes I miss, since they’re so heavy.”

  
“Then just keep that one,” he laughed, leading her on to the path. “Then you won’t miss. Once it cures, that bamboo is really strong and light. Put a head on it and you’ll have a real weapon. What are you planning to do, charge the Wambesi? Re-enact the Charge of the Light Brigade all by yourself?”

  
“Only if they decide to ‘honor’ me with an attack,” she said seriously. “Only polite to return the favor, unless they expect a different reaction. Am I supposed to just ignore them? That seems rude.”

  
“No, no,” he laughed. “This I have to see.”

  
In due time, posted sentries for the Wambesi spotted them trotting toward their village. Drums beat and soon several dozen warriors were assembled on the dirt arena outside the gate. Soccer goals showed its regular use, but for now it was a place of spectacle. Men and women lined the palisade, shouting and clapping to the drumbeat. Each warrior carried a large cowhide shield, a short spear and a long spear. They had high, feathered headdresses on, and kilts made of leather strips and animal tails. Leather guards on biceps and forearms, calves and chests were all brightly colored with the fur still on, mostly tiger, leopard or lion, Donna guessed.

  
“How very Zulu,” commented Donna, as the warriors stamped and shouted, bounding into the air in unison, spears in hand.

  
“They’re related, I think,” her lover told her. “That’s quite a turnout. Old Chief Mbele hasn’t been in war gear since the last Jungle Olympics. That’s him, with the white fringed kilt.”

  
Donna thought the display not so different than that of the Maori of her native islands. The two horses halted at a respectful distance, not at all bothered by the commotion. Hero and Devil both seemed somewhat tense, however, though Tim only seemed entertained.

  
As they seemed to have stopped after a while, Donna reined Tim back on his haunches, and he reared with his fighting stance. Donna gave a high-pitched Maori war cry, or at least, her version of one, and launched him at the man farthest to her right. Frozen in surprise, the Wambesi saw her turn her horse in spear’s length of their line and ride down it at a gallop, striking each shield with her bamboo stick. At the end of the line Tim did that dramatic, sliding halt, spun without his forefeet touching the earth, and rocketed back along the line. Donna repeated her warcry, her target chosen.

  
The Wambesi chief was surprised to find his feathered headdress, formed of tempting openwork weaving, had left his head on the end of the stick. The watchers shouted with admiration and amusement as Donna came to a rock steady stop next to her fiancé, her innocent-looking stick impaling Chief Mbele’s crown.

  
“Showoff,” he murmured, with a grin, as they walked toward the crowd. Fortunately, the old Chief had decided that this was a good omen, and everyone was delighted in the Phantom’s bride’s manners. And skill with a spear, added many of the warriors to each other. The women nudged each other and pointed to the obviously Llongo cloth her horse wore, and vowed that she should not leave their village empty-handed.

  
“I feel a little funny,” she told him, as they walked to the gates surrounded by spear carrying warriors. “I’ll need to walk Tim out, lover.”

  
“How much water have you had to drink?” he asked as she began to go pale. “Donna!”

  
The stick dropped from her hand and she wilted over Tim’s neck. The Chief himself caught the bamboo before it hit the ground. Tim stopped dead, legs braced, holding up his rider with his neck. Exclamations of alarm came from the happy crowd, shrieks of female orders from the town wall. The Phantom stood at her side and felt her clammy skin with one hand as he lifted her from her saddle with the other. Tim looked back at them in concern.

  
“O Ghost Who Walks,” said the Chief, worriedly. “What has happened to your bride? She was fine only a moment ago.”

  
“I think she doesn’t understand how the weather here can affect her, yet,” the giant told the older chief, holding her in his arms like a child. “Her country is much cooler and drier. She probably didn’t drink enough water to compensate. Would you mind letting her lie down in the shade for a while, Chief Mbele? I’ll walk her horse a little and then come see her.”

  
“Of course,” exclaimed the old man, as the women of the village burst into the group. “How could I prevent it? My wife will make me sleep in the plaza if I do not!”

  
His wife, a big woman in yellow and red, chivvied the pair of them into the nearest open area of the village, to a shading tree. Donna protested as she was laid on a bench and brought fruit juice and water by what seemed to be every woman in the village.  
“I have to walk Tim out,” she insisted, not quite in focus. “He’ll be a little hot, and he can’t drink until he’s cooler.”

  
“That’s what you need to do,” the Phantom told her, as the chiefess ordered her women around. “The humidity is worse here than you’re used to. You have to drink more water, take in some salt, or your blood pressure drops abruptly and you faint as soon as you relax. Just lay down a little while and drink something. I’ll take care of Tim, don’t worry.”

  
“Tim’s going to think I don’t love him anymore,” she lamented as he stood up and loomed, a dark purple shadow against the shading tree above her. “Are you sure I’m not alright?”

  
“You will be,” he assured her as she sat up. “But don’t do anything but drink and talk to the nice ladies. They won’t let you.”

  
He told the female population of the Wambesi village, gathered in their finery around him, what had happened, and they assured him that she would be in good hands. Theirs. He and the Chief, Donna’s stick still in hand, although he had sent a son back to his house with the spears and shield, went back to where Hero, Tim and Devil waited patiently. Devil, with a pack of children waiting to play with him, whined in question, wondering if he should be guarding Donna.

  
“It’s okay, boy,” the Phantom said, patting the wolf. “Go ahead and play.” Devil barked a happy bark and romped off with the children, his favorite sport. The Phantom took up both sets of reins and led the horses on a slow circuit of the village. The Chief, warily on the side away from Hero, walked with him.

  
“Even though she is a woman,” Mbele ventured, “and so weaker, she is a skillful warrior, O Ghost Who Walks. Is that a common ability in a woman of her country?”

  
“Many women ride horses in her country,” he told the older man. “Few as well as she, and I doubt many others have her talent with weapons. She also uses a sword rather well, and wrestles. She is a woman of endless skills and surprises, old friend.”

  
“She sounds as if she were meant for you,” the older man exclaimed in delight. “If she can stay upright, that is. Will she become used to the climate, do you think?”

  
“In time, I’m sure she will,” the masked giant assured him. “If you check the water on the front of her saddle there, I think you’ll find that she didn’t drink any. A common mistake for people who aren’t used to the humidity.”

  
“And her horse is not affected by this?” the heavily built chief asked, patting Tim as he walked next to the bay. It was noon, now, and very hot. “Or is he from Bengalla, like Hero?”

  
“Horses are not built the same as humans,” the Phantom told him. “And he has been allowed to drink and rest in the proper way. She is far more careful of others than of herself, particularly her horse. Ah, the drums. I need to send some messages, Chief Mbele. Can you call the men to the place where Donna lies? I must see if I can get the Council to come to the wedding, as well as a few others.”

  
“O Ghost Who Walks,” the old Wambesi said in delight, “I will send them at once. I am certain that the Council will be overjoyed to come. Who would loose such an opportunity?”

  
“I think Tim is cool enough,” the Phantom said, feeling the bay’s chest, and watching his even, unhurried breathing. “I’ll let them drink and bring him with me to where Donna is, if I may?”

  
“Your horses are always welcome in Wambesi country,” the old Chief laughed. “They are far better behaved than most children, you know.”

  
“Perhaps, but the women might not see it that way,” the Phantom said, as the two horses drank from the river. The old Chief called to a man nearby to send the drummers to the Phantom’s wife at the place of the suli tree.

  
Leading the two horses, whose girths he had loosened, the tall man in purple came at last to the place he had left his intended bride. Every woman in the village seemed to be there, with every type of drinkable liquid the Wambesi tribe knew. Far fewer Wambesi spoke a tongue Donna knew, as they were farther from European influence. The Chief’s wife and the local healer-witch were in charge, it seemed, and issued orders to any they deemed to need directions. Donna was half-reclining on a layer of woven fabrics and a pile of pillows. Three young women held various cups and jugs for her to try, squatting on rush matting that now carpeted the area. Several large, strong women were using big palm leaf fans to cool Donna and her volunteer entourage.

  
“Kit, do I really need to be coddled like this?” asked Donna in embarrassment. “I was stupid, I learned better, I’m fine now. Help!”

  
“Just tough it out for a little while, little sir knight,” he teased. “You need to eat something salty to replace the salts you lost sweating, and drink some more. And if you’re going to do that kind of thing, you have to expect people to worry. Me, Tim, the Wambesi, all of us. They’re sure you wore yourself out to honor them, so they’re treating you like royalty. Shall I call you ‘milady?’”

  
“I am your lady,” Donna told him, grinning as a tall woman in gray and orange pressed a cup of something on him. “If you can call me a lady at all, which no one who really knows me would. Yours, though, no matter what you call me.”

  
“Then eat what they bring you,” he requested, as the drummers sat on their heels nearby, waiting for them to be done. “I’ll ask them to get you some food that will help you stay upright, as the Chief put it.”

  
“Honored ladies of Wambesi,” he began, seeing Donna relax a little, and speaking their own tongue. “My betrothed needs to eat something salty, say coabi root, or salted meat, or fried onions. Her body needs to put itself back in balance. Would you have anything of the sort about?”

  
“O Ghost Who Walks,” said the Chief’s wife with dignity, “we will not let her leave without being healthy. If such foods will help her, she shall have them. The honor of Wambesi on it.”

  
“I can ask no better,” the Phantom said, bowing slightly. “If you need my help, I will be over there with the drummers.”

  
He turned to the men who patiently waited for him, sitting on their haunches in the shade of a large house. The women exploded into activity, ordered about by their two leaders, like generals commanding their troops. Women scurried this way and that, busy as ants rebuilding a disturbed nest.

  
“O drummers of Wambesi,” he said formally, standing in the sun before them like some ancient spirit made flesh. “I wish to send a message to all the Chiefs of the Council of Chiefs. In twenty-two days I will marry my betrothed on the beach of Keelawee, and I invite them to come to witness and celebrate the union. Will you send these messages?”

  
“O Phantom,” said the head drummer, a gray-haired man with arms like tree trunks, grinning from ear to ear, “we are honored to do so. And may you and your bride be happy and healthy and have many children!”

  
His compatriots agreed with enthusiasm, some departing for their drums immediately. The drumming began soon after, throbbing an exotic rhythm to their lunch. He ate what was laying about, mostly fruits and dried meat. She had anything salted the Wambesi could find, including brine-pickled fish and fried taro roots, almost like fish and chips.

  
Tim and Hero had freshly cut grasses and banana leaves, Devil a newly killed and boned chicken. An hour passed, then two, as Donna drowsed a little and the Phantom was loathe to make her travel in the hottest part of the day. But Donna woke on her own and insisted she was going to keep going. She promised faithfully to drink at least once an hour, and her fiancé gave in.

  
“And Tim won’t let me fall off,” she added, perhaps unwisely. “I’ll take it easy, really I will, Kit.”

  
“Alright, darling,” he agreed, finally. The hottest part of the day had passed and the breeze was cooling the jungle. “But I’ll make sure you do take care. I don’t want you to wilt until after the wedding.”

  
“I won’t be doing it right after the wedding,” she told him with a grin. “Not until we’re alone, at least.”

  
“I’ll girth them up, then, and we’ll go,” the Phantom said with some relief. “Have a little more to drink.”

  
“I’m swimming already,” Donna muttered to herself as she tied her paddock boots. The Phantom was at the horses’ sides, tightening their girths and putting on their bridles. He said something to the crowd that made them laugh and shout. A woman came forward to say something to Donna’s lover, gesturing toward her, a question, it seemed. He looked over at her as he finished and nodded to the woman, who turned and waved imperiously to someone beyond the open space among the village homes. A small procession of warriors and their wives marched in and up to Donna, as she stood up to join her fiancé.

  
“They want to give you something, my lady,” he called to her. “They wouldn’t tell me what.”

  
The party revealed a long bundle, handing it to Donna with an anticipatory respect that reminded her of the Crosslands and her gift bridle. She unwrapped the package to find a cane spear, polished and decorated with a white fringe of fur around the head. The point was a thin, leaf-shaped piece of steel, the end capped with a small knob of bronze to balance the head. The shaft was of black bamboo, and the thing was razor-edged beauty to Donna.

  
“Oh, it’s gorgeous!” she exclaimed, hefting its mild weight in one hand, and realizing how easy it would be to use. “Is it really for me?”

  
“The Wambesi insist on it,” he told her, relaying her comments to the tribe. “They say it isn’t right that a warrior be without a weapon, even a woman. The Chief will pay for that remark tonight, I bet.”

  
“Then I accept,” she said, grinning at her new friends and shaking her new spear over her head. “Tell them I will try to use it with honor, and will remember always where it came from.”

  
“Then I suggest you show them a few of Tim’s tricks, and then we’ll leave,” he told her, mounting Hero with that heart-stopping grace she was growing to love.

  
“Tim,” she called, “come, Tim.”

  
The big horse whickered to her and walked into the crowd, carefully not stepping on the few who didn’t move out of his way at first. The bay came to her and was patted on his brushed-out neck, every child in the village having fought over the privilege.

  
“Down, boy,” she told him, and the crowd was delighted as she mounted the kneeling horse, spear in hand.

  
“Up, Tim,” she commanded, still holding only the spear in her hands. The gelding came to his feet and nosed her toes in the left stirrup. She flourished her gift again to the crowd and took the reins in her left hand, legging the bay around to join Hero. They left to cheers and shouts as Donna made Tim do his best piaff, then two-tempe changes. He muffed a few of them, but Donna was pretty sure the Wambesi hadn’t noticed. They soon entered the deep jungle again, making good time at a trot.

  
To Donna’s delight, they saw some elephants, a panther and a few zebras, none of which seemed inclined to either run or attack. Many shyer animals were spotted by the Phantom, but Donna wasn’t experienced enough to see them before they were gone. Birds of exotic coloration and size were everywhere, as were the monkeys and snakes. Though the heat and humidity were constant, Donna had learned her lesson and was in no danger of another embarrassing incident.

  
Several times they came upon small parties of humans on the same trail, mostly hunters from the local villages. Only once did they see anyone else, a white man with several natives. He carried no gun, only a huge bag and several cameras. He was a big, rangy-looking man, blond and good-looking, in an outdoorsy sort of way. He waved to the Phantom when he saw them coming, and to Donna’s mild surprise, Hero came to a halt. Tim stopped, too, and the blond man greeted the Phantom in French, almost with familiarity.

  
“Jean,” said her lover, in English, “this is Donna McLaren, my betrothed. Donna, this is Jean Dumont, a wildlife photographer and naturalist. He’s been looking for gorillas and okapis. I don’t know if he’s found any, but he’s got some pretty good guides with him.”

  
“Mademoiselle,” exclaimed the photographer, bowing so that he endangered his balance with his cameras. “I am greatly honored to meet you. My congratulations to you both, and very best wishes. And I have indeed seen both okapi and gorillas. Alas, I did not get photos, but we will try again tomorrow. It is not as if one can pose them as one desires. I will get them used to us, now that I know where they are, and then they will be willing to let me take their pictures.”

  
“We’re getting married on the fourth,” the Phantom told the excited Frenchman, who had dropped back into his native language halfway through his first sentence. “Would you be our guest at the ceremony?”

  
“I? At your wedding?” exclaimed the blond man in surprised pleasure. “I would forego pictures of the Loch Ness Monster for that honor, my friend!”

  
“Excellent. Be at the Phantom Head on the second of the month, and someone will guide you in. Oh, and bring your camera, Jean. There’s a few things in the Deep Woods you might want to shoot.”

  
“All the jungle knows of the wedding and when it is to be,” the photographer said, eyeing Donna with her spear in her hand. “Nothing else has been spoken of amongst us after we were eluded by our subjects. Nothing was said by the talking drums of you marrying a beautiful valkyrie, however. Or is this St. Joan reincarnate?”

  
“She’s a woman of many talents, Jean,” laughed the Phantom as they passed through the excited little party. “And speaks French quite well, so be warned!”

  
“Safe journey, mon amis,” came the call after them, as the horses picked up their ground-eating trot once more.

  
“Well,” said Donna, as the horses drank from a stream a bit later, and after she had had her drink. “That takes care of the wedding photographer. Has he ever met Mandy?”

  
“I don’t see why he should have,” replied her fiancé, taking her spear from her willing hand. “He came in on a commercial flight. Do we need a photographer?”

  
“All he needs to do is pretend to take a few pictures and Mummy will be happy,” Donna said, feeling her body protesting at the long ride. “All I want is one picture of us together and that’s enough. Mummy will want an album. She’s going to have to live with it. Or without it, I should say.”

  
“Oh, Jean may be willing to do that for her,” the Phantom said, examining the spear minutely. “He loves to take pictures. I had to pull him out of the Veiled Lady once, after he fell in taking photos.”

  
“The volcano?” asked Donna, watching him and thinking him the most beautiful sight. He sat the big white stallion in the middle of a shallow stream, a shading arch of trees and vines making a green tunnel of sun-speckled shadow behind him. A trick of the light made him glow like purple neon, his perfectly muscled body an epiphany of maleness. She felt a strong surge of lust, and remembered his touch vividly. Where, she wondered, would they spend the night?

  
“Yes,” he answered absently, unaware of her desire. “Ah, I thought so. The Wambesi have woven a couple of unusual charms into your spear, darling. In addition to the usual one for success in battle, there’s one for health and another for fertility. The bleached lion mane conceals them and the binding of the head. It’s a fine weapon, well made. Must have been hard work to get it finished in two, two and a half hours.”

  
“It’s lots prettier than that bamboo one you cut for me, Kit,” she said, accepting the length of cane once more. “I like that I can use the other end instead of the sharp one if I want to. Now I need to make it a leather sheath, so it won’t rust or loose it’s edge, like they do in Japan with their naginatas.”

  
“Plenty of time for that after we get to the Deep Woods,” he said, turning Hero and riding out of the water. Tim followed, Devil beside him. “Can you throw a spear, Donna, or just use one as a lance?”

  
“I’m not sure, Kit,” she told him, bending low to avoid a tree branch. “I’ve never thrown a real spear at a target. And I’d much rather practice with one that’s not quite so pretty, if you don’t mind. Why?”

  
“Oh, just trying to find the limits of your skills, darling,” he told her, choosing their path. “I am constantly amazed at the things you do know and can do.”

  
“Speaking of which, Kit,” she said, catching up to Hero in a wide clearing. “I asked you once, but you never told me. Do you have a favorite food?”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> over night, alone, what to do?

“Hmm. I’ve always liked peaches,” he told her, loving the way she looked, even sweaty, tired and dirty. Her brownish blond hair, touched with copper was less than tidy, her face a little flushed from the heat, smudged across one cheekbone with dirt. Her cotton blouse stuck to her back and shoulders in the humid air, her jeans were probably molded into her skin by now. Yet she rode erect, proudly, her spear in her hand, the reins loose in her left, like a warrior queen with an army at her back. “Hard to get them here, though.”

  
“God, Kit, I love you,” she said, looking at him with longing. “I want to make love to you, but I’m too tired. When do we stop for the night?”

  
“Soon. Somewhere with a nice, cool stream to bathe in,” he told her. “And a cool, dry bed, and a quiet, restful night. All alone.”

  
“Oh, that sounds lovely, Kit,” sighed Donna, easing her legs in the stirrups. “I don’t remember ever being so tired from just riding. I wonder if I’m pregnant or something?”

  
“It’s probably just the humidity, my lady dearest,” he told her, caressing her cheek with one strong hand. “It takes a long time to get used to it. Some people say that your blood has to ‘thin,’ which I always thought sounded bad. Don’t worry, after we get to the Skull Cave it will be easy to just do things in the morning or evening, if it’s too hot.”

  
“All I can think of is a shower and a bed, lover,” said Donna, looking at him with a smile coming over her face. “Well, not all I can think of, but all I’m likely to manage. How do you stay so clean?”

  
“It’s the costume,” he told her, grinning with pleasure at her desire. He wasn’t tired. “It doesn’t show dirt and it’s thin enough to be cooler than jeans. I’d like a good bath, too, though.”

  
“I may need to get something else to wear when I ride, then,” she said to herself. “Jeans are just too heavy to wear in this heat. How did cowboys do it?”

  
Devil came to his master’s whistle, then bounded away into the forest as they rode on. Only moments later, after rounding a bend in the trail, they came upon a building. Having seen only natural growth and native huts, it was all the more surreal for the contrast.

  
White marble, trimmed in gray granite, the building at first seemed perfect in the late afternoon light. A small tower, a large portico and courtyard, fountains and gardens, white stone paths, all seemed to be in pristine condition. It was only as they rode forward into the remains of a huge formal garden that it became obvious that it was abandoned.

  
“It’s beautiful,” breathed Donna as they rode toward the edifice, almost a small palace. “Who built it?”

  
“The Emperor Joonkar, about three hundred years ago,” he told her, enjoying her reactions. “It’s what was known as a retreat, or pleasure garden. He’d come here to get away from court. Most of the furnishings are gone, but my family has often used it as a resting-place, so we’ll be quite comfortable. Devil is getting dinner for us, and the inner courtyard should be full of horse food.”

  
“It’s still a very pretty place,” she said sadly. “I feel this urge to restore it. I think it’s a national character trait. We Kiwis are kind of maintainers, I guess.”

  
“Don’t let it get to you tonight,” he said in some sympathy. “You need some rest. Besides, you haven’t seen the best part. Come on.”

  
Tim followed the white stallion into the inner courtyard, a place of white marble statues, a running brook, beautiful colonnades and lush grass. The Phantom rode to a corner where several railed walkways joined and dismounted. He quickly stripped Hero’s tack off, hanging the saddle on one of the rails with the saddlecloth over it. The bridle he hung on a dead tree branch that was bound to a pillar by living vines. Donna did as he had, but set aside the water and food they had carried. Tim rubbed his head on her affectionately, then found a place in the deep grass to roll. His grunts of satisfaction followed them up the stairs as they entered the actual building.

  
Spear in one hand, the almost empty water bottles in the other, Donna followed her lover with a curiosity that outweighed her exhaustion. The inside of their chosen building was almost empty, but windows of carved stone lattice were everywhere, letting in air and light. The huge man she loved led her to a figured wall, pressed a series of stones and the wall swung inward to reveal a short passage.

  
“The harem entrance,” he told her, gesturing for her to proceed. She went inside and heard the wall close up behind them, then was in a wild garden, like paradise lost, gaping in awe at the beauty before her. A waterfall was the centerpiece of a natural grotto, ferns and moss covered most of the rock around it, looking like velvet and feathers. Beyond it were benches of white marble and shaded bowers of more white stone lattice. Overgrown and wild, it still held its artistry up to view. With each passing moment more became visible to Donna’s delighted gaze. A stairway led up the tower wall, railed with a liana that had broken off the original balustrade ages ago.

  
“Oh, Kit,” she breathed softly. “It’s beautiful. No one could have possibly planned this, it’s so perfect. Wait, give me those, now, go stand by the waterfall. Go on, please.”

  
He shrugged and handed her the two bags of food that the Wambesi had given them, then did as she asked. He turned and stood, arms folded, looking at her with a steady, possessive gaze, the picture of mystery and power. He saw her drop the things she carried and walk slowly toward him.

  
“Now,” she said throatily, almost whispering. “Now, it’s perfect.”

  
He took her in his arms and she melted into his embrace, kissing him delicately at first, then with rising desire. He held her carefully, not with all his strength as he wanted to, and ran one hand through her hair as he did so. She murmured something against his cheek and he picked her up suddenly, held in his arms like a child.

  
“First you need to see where we sleep tonight, my dear lady,” he said gently, kissing her forehead. “Then we can try out the shower. There’s only soaproot for your hair, but you’ll like it, I think.”

  
“Don’t carry me, Kit,” she murmured, not really wanting him to put her down. “You must be tired, too.”

  
“Not at all, dear,” he told her cheerfully. “I’m used to riding this route at a gallop, you know. Takes me less than a day, if I’m in a hurry. I’m used to the weather, the food and the water, as well as the riding. And I’m fully over that little problem with holes in my hide, thanks to you.”

  
“Alright,” she agreed, relaxed and rather comfortable. “You’ve convinced me, lover. Have your way with me.”

  
“Oh, I intend to, Donna,” he said, making an unsuccessful attempt at a leer. She thought he probably didn’t need to know how cute she thought that looked, and just smiled up at him. “This is where we’ll sleep tonight.”

  
He’d been climbing the mulch-covered stairs as they talked and now they were in another part of the tower, a room made of two sides of open stone work and two of solid, so that they seemed to be on a giant veranda. Several secret panels slid open to reveal woven mats and chests of pillows and sheets. These her lover tossed on the wide stone platform that dominated the room, and Donna almost gave in to her exhaustion then and there. Then he pulled out two purple silk robes and some fluffy white towels, and all she could think of was bathing with him in that waterfall.

  
“Oh, Kit,” she exclaimed. “You’re a magician. You’ve made me want to do something besides sleep. Let’s go get naked!”

  
“Donna, you’re incorrigible,” the Phantom said fondly, as she grabbed most of the towels and a robe in one arm and his hand with her spare. He managed to snatch the robe she had left him and the last towel before she dragged him down the stairs. The New Zealander threw her load on a bench in a dry area, then began to quickly remove every scrap she had on. “And beautiful beyond belief.”

  
“Hah!” she retorted, blushing as she wriggled out of sweat-damp jeans. “Not like this, you flatterer. I do appreciate the thought, though. Now, you, I’ve never seen be anything other than impressively gorgeous, even when you weren’t breathing. It takes a lot of, uh, masculinity to be sexy even when you’re technically dead.”

  
“Hmm, don’t trust my judgement?” he asked, taking off his boots, as he watched his fiancée test the water with a foot. “Jean thought so, too, if you recall. And several of the Llongo and Wambesi said as much.”

  
“Men,” said Donna, submerging herself in the cool, but not cold, water, “have some peculiar blind spots. I’m not complaining, you understand, I’ve just never thought of myself as beautiful before.”

  
“Oh, you are, my love,” he said, setting his gunbelt down near the edge of the pool. “Wet or dry, dirty or clean, awake or asleep, even in that extremely lady-like faint. You are the most beautiful, compelling woman I’ve ever seen, the only one I’ll ever love.”

  
“In that case,” said Donna, pulling him down to join her, “I’ll forgive you a few lapses in judgement. Now, where’s this soaproot stuff?”

  
“Right on the edge of the pool, see?” he showed her. “You pull up a few stalks, rinse off the roots and pound them up in this little depression, like so. The result is rubbed into the roots of your hair and then rinsed. It even smells good afterward.”

  
“If you say so, darling,” she said doubtfully, plunging her hair under the water to thoroughly wet it. He took up a handful and when she came up, began to work it into her tresses. It was a good feeling, he thought, enjoying the bare back against his body while he massaged her scalp. Cool water surrounded his torso except where she leaned back on him, trusting him. Finished, he put one arm around her waist and swam toward the falls. She relaxed into the movement, trailing him almost limply in the water.

  
“Hold your breath and stand up,” he told her, doing so himself. The water cascaded across them both and rinsed her hair quickly. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, waist deep and both of them as wet as otters. She wrapped first her arms and then her legs around him and he felt her kiss become more urgent, as if she hungered for him, might eat him. He felt himself responding to her as she pressed herself tightly to his chest and pulled herself up to his waist.

  
“Hold that pose, lover,” she growled in his ear, one hand going down to find him beneath her. “And in a minute you can,” she gasped in fulfillment, and continued in a purr of pleasure, “do anything you like.”

  
“My lady,” he whispered in her ear as he kissed her neck. “You have me in your power. I am yours to command.”

  
“I’m too tired to command today, you brute,” she groaned, as she let go of his neck and let the water and his delicious flesh hold her up. “Ah, you’re so perfect, love. I’m almost afraid all this is a dream. Maybe I took a fall and I’m hallucinating it all, except I never feel tired in dreams.”

  
“If it is a dream,” he said in that caressing tone, “don’t wake up, Donna. It would break my heart to lose you.”

  
Donna felt her body tremble with passion at his tone and his words, and he felt her grip with a hiss of pleasure. She let herself drift in the ecstasy of his words and gentle touches. His hands pulled her back to his chest, and he carried her out of the water to the soft, mossy bank. There he made love to her until she fell asleep in his arms, sated with his love and his strength.

  
A whine of inquiry woke him from his reverie, contemplating her form in the growing twilight. Devil sat nearby with a pair of small piglets dead at his feet. He approached at his master’s gesture, licking the Phantom’s face and laying by Donna at his order. Donna put an arm around the furry beast and snuggled up to him in her sleep.

  
“I’m a bit jealous, boy,” the Phantom told the wolf softly, “but you can’t clean and cook dinner for us, so you get her and I get the chores. Stay.”

  
While Devil watched with his head on his paws, the naked man made a fire and skinned and gutted the pigs. He gave the wolf the guts and several of the better bones. The big animal was unbothered by Donna’s grip on him, moving very little as he ate. With the ease and speed of long practice, the Phantom had dinner cooked and ready, the water bottles refilled, and Donna’s spear set at the stairwell. Then he woke his lover, who was not at all upset to find herself cuddling the wolf.

  
“Sorry, Devil,” she said sleepily, patting him. He licked her chin. “I was thinking you were someone taller.”

  
“You know, Donna,” he told her teasingly, “that didn’t do much for your cleanliness. The moss made a mess of you, miss. Both of us, and your hair, too. I guess that makes you a messy miss with moss mussed hair. We need another bath.”

  
“Mostly,” she gasped, after rolling around on the mossy bank laughing. “After we eat, though, lover. I’m starving.”

  
She sat in an extremely becoming pose by the fire, not wanting to wear the silk over moss smeared skin, and not cold enough to need covering. She was utterly unconscious of her effect on him as she sat cross-legged on the ground devouring roast pork, fruits and pickled fish. Devil was more than happy to eat any leftover meat she might have, a comforting thought with no garbage bin in sight.

  
She watched his solid, muscled body in the firelight, remembering the passion he had recently aroused in her, feeling the ache and pull of muscles she had stretched to their limits in ecstatic orgasm. He was the most masculine creature of his species, she was certain, feeling almost unworthy of him, humbled by the fortune that had made him her own. How could she possibly deserve him, she wondered, seeing the pulse in his throat, the warmth in those gray, firelit eyes. He sat as the Wambesi men had, on his toes, balanced and ready to act in an instant. She supposed that such a position was easier for him, given his natural endowments, than others might have been.

  
“I wish I’d brought a toothbrush and some paste,” she lamented, after finishing dinner and burying the fire. The moon was high now, and easily lit their garden sanctum. “I’m going to have a bad case of smelly mouth tomorrow morning.”

  
“You don’t smell bad in the morning,” he told her. “You smell, and taste, like you. It’s not any worse than mine, anyway.”

  
“Well, if my backside looks like parts of you, O Ghost Who Walks,” she said, tracing a smear on one of his forearms, “I’m ready to take another dip. I’m a dirty wench, so I am.”

  
“It’s not dirt,” he told her, picking her up in his arms. “It’s natural camouflage, or maybe the newest thing in mudpacks. But it’s not coming to bed with me, my lady of the sea.”

  
“That’s _atuamoana_ , or Apakura,” she corrected, as he sat her on his lap in the shallow part of the basin. “And I’m sure the Maori sea goddess wouldn’t be so filthy as I. Surely a goddess, particularly one so powerful, could keep clean. If she wanted to, that is.”

  
“I suppose gods probably have less thought about such things than us humans,” he said, rubbing her shoulders clean and progressing down her back to where she sat. “They’d either always be clean, just because they were gods, or always dirty because they were indifferent to the idea of clean versus dirty. Never having met a real god, I don’t know which.”

  
“The inherent difficulty in religious logic,” said Donna, luxuriating in the feel of her lover pampering her. “Does the god you worship do what you think he does because he uses human logic, or divine? Does the pantheon or deity act out of human motivations or out of unknowable divine ones? And how much of religion is simply made up by priests to con money out of gullible parishioners?”

  
“More comparative mythology, Lady Atuamoana?” he asked, combing his fingers through her hair as it floated around her head. “What is the answer?”

  
“There is no set answer for religion,” she yawned, relaxed in his strong arms, safe, secure, at ease. “No one answers the question the same way. I think that if you have to believe, you should keep it simple.”

  
“And what do you believe in, Donna?” he asked, having rubbed her body clean, more or less, and now, with a few quick motions, his own. He had been on top, so mostly, he cleaned off knees and arms.

  
“You,” she said dreamily. “Tim, horses, that evil is to be fought where you find it, and good aided if you can. That there is a higher power, though I doubt it interferes with puny humans.”

  
“You’re an agnostic, Lady Donna,” he said in some surprise. “I thought you were Episcopal or something.”

  
“Raised that way,” she admitted, as he carried her to where they had tossed the towels so long ago. As he rubbed her down, she continued her thought. “But anthropology makes you think about things you once accepted. Modern, church-going Kiwis say ‘oh, that’s jut native superstition, primitive religions, animism, not like us. We’re the chosen, true religion.’ But every religion thinks that it’s the true one. I think that if one is wrong, they’re all likely wrong. Like as not, when we die, we’ll find out that God is a horse, and those who have sinned end up cleaning stalls for all eternity.”

  
“A view I might have expected from you, dear,” he chuckled, robing her with silk, and setting her on the bench. He chose a towel and dried himself while picking up their clothing. She opened out a towel and bundled up the garments when he brought them back. She took them up the steep, moon-silvered stairway, using her spear to make sure of the deceptive footing, while he followed with the rest of the towels and the food and water containers. Devil followed them both, silent and deadly, guarding them.

  
She hung the towels and clothing about the place to dry, already loathing the idea of wearing her clothes another day. She could see Tim and Hero through a latticed grill, both grazing peacefully in the moonlight. She put her spear in a corner where she could find it if she needed it, and peeled off the sensuously slinky robe. Silk was such erotic stuff, she thought, seeing her lover clad in it, sitting on the edge of the platform bed.

  
“Let’s go to bed, Donna,” he said, holding out a hand to her. “Tomorrow we’ll be home. You’ll sleep in a cave and Tim in a meadow. We’ll be feasted by the Bandar until we can’t walk, we’ll be so full. I don’t doubt they’ve been cooking ever since Toma sent that first message.”

  
Donna, her body again nude, slid inside his robe to snuggle with her lover, skin to skin. He shrugged off the silk, and lay back with her, the two curled together on the harem bed of a long dead emperor. Eventually, laying with her nested up against him, spooned tightly, sleep was almost triumphant. Her back against his front, his arm around her waist, his loins against her buttocks, she sighed in contentment.

  
“No one ever writes about how wonderful this is,” she whispered, feeling his breath on her hair, her neck. “Just being held by the one you love best.”

  
He knew from the way her voice trailed off, that she slept, and soon, he did as well, though he woke well before she did.

  
He hadn’t changed position all night, but she had, dragging the sheet down so that her body was exposed to the air. The dawn light was enough to show him her long legs, her smooth, pale skin, her rose-tipped breasts, his own arm around her waist. Her muscled thighs and hips, her firm rear, were thrust against his own groin, and his body was responding to his contemplation of her. He stroked her belly with his free left hand, then began to fondle her breasts with it. She sighed and moved into his hand, dreaming of pleasure, fulfillment at those same hands.

  
He could feel the swelling length between them, pressing against her, almost like a creature with a life of it’s own, trying to escape the trap it was in. He moved his left hand down to the tuft of hair between those firm thighs, gently scratching the wiry stuff, moving deeper as her body responded, even in sleep, to his touch. He heard her murmur something and come awake, felt her start of surprise, then a hand slid up and down his own thigh like a fiery request.

Request granted.

  
Much later, the sun now high above the horizon, they lay panting together on the rumpled sheets and mattress, damp with sweat and the evidence of their passions. She was far more inventive, he found, than he was, and he was constantly amazed by her range of puns. Her sense of humor had a way of taking her at strange, even awkward moments, but it did interesting things to her insides, and to his own. Donna showed no signs of impatience, content to let his body lay on her own, with no complaint over the heat that was again making itself felt in the air, or his considerable weight.

  
“Donna, we really must be going,” he told her, finding himself a little reluctant. “Do you want to bathe first?”

  
“Yes, indeed,” she replied, as he rolled to the floor, snatching a towel for her to dry herself with. “And tell me about the Deep Woods again. Do you have anything besides these clothes that I can wear? I’m not sure I ever want to wear them again.”

  
Tossing his own garb across one arm, he picked up another towel, leaving the robe where it had fallen the night before. “Oh, I think you’ll find plenty to wear, or not wear, if you prefer, my lady. Devil, stay with her.”

  
Donna, comfortably naked, and still feeling the occasional after-orgasm twinge, tidied up the room, putting away the sheets and pillows. She went down the stairs with her clothes in one hand and her spear in the other, Devil at her heels. Below, she could see her almost-husband buckling on his gunbelt, already finished with the pool. The water bottles swung from his hand as he left to saddle the horses, a smile that almost melted her heart on his masked face.

  
Donna took little more than a rinse, wetting her hair to keep cool as long as possible. Dressed again, she wondered what to do with the towels. Devil was no help when she asked him, and she was reluctant to put them in with the other things where they would surely mildew.

  
“Just hang them on the rail in the bedroom, darling,” the Phantom said behind her, startling her. “Guran will send someone to get everything cleaned and washed as soon as he hears we used the place. Mom and Dad loved to spend a night or two here when they could. Guran believes in unobtrusive service.”

  
“How very Raj,” said Donna, a little surprised. “A rare man indeed who thinks of cleaning and washing. I’ve never met him and already I like him. Just a minute.”

  
She came back down the stairs, Devil still at her back, to find him gone again, but only briefly. He suddenly dropped from the branches of a tallish tree near the waterfall. In each hand he held a trio of orange colored fruit, a set of which he offered her. Her stomach growled as she took them, and he laughed.

  
“Breakfast, my little filly,” he teased. “Before we run you hard to the Deep Woods. These’re mangos. Peel the skin partway and you can suck the juice out enough that it doesn’t get you all sticky when you eat the rest.”

  
“Mmm,” she commented as they walked out into the courtyard. “It’s delicious. Why’d you want peaches when you can have these? Drat, all gone. Sorry, Tim, maybe another time you can try one. Let me wash my hands first, then I’m ready.”

  
She did so in the small basin that evidently filled from their waterfall, since it came spilling out of the foundation of the building. She rinsed her face, too, then turned to Tim and mounted. The water bottles were already fixed to the saddle bow, the smaller pockets on her numnuh empty. Her lover handed her the spear and swung up on his own stallion with easy, heart-twisting grace.

  
“How do you do that?” she asked, as they rode out through the lush remains of the ancient formal garden. “I know I don’t look that graceful mounting a horse.”

  
“Do what?” he asked in surprise, as they headed out into jungle again. This part of the journey would be shorter, but much more perilous. The ways he knew well, but the sparser human population made other dangers more prevalent. Great cats and other predators were common here, as well as the usually rare cape buffalo and giant snake. Elephants and some types of deer or pig were their ordinary prey, but a pair of slowly moving horses might look tempting.

  
“Get on a horse like that, you silly,” she said in mild envy. “Every time you do that, you make me feel all mushy in my tummy, and tight in the throat. It’s like a ballet movement when you do it, it’s so beautiful.”

  
“Would you rather I not do it?” he asked, mildly, teasing her as he mapped out their course in his head. If they went that way it would get them there sooner, but the other way would show her the falls and the best views.

  
“No, I’m just a little envious, I think,” she said as they started to trot down a narrow game trial. “I love to see you do it.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Deep Woods at last

“Donna,” he told her after a few minutes, “this part of the jungle is a part of the area no one lives in. It’s too close to my home for most tribes. Because there are fewer people, there are more animals, lots more. And most of them are either hunting, or being hunted. Have Tim stay with us if we run or go somewhere else, or you could end up getting hurt, you or Tim.”

  
“Like leopards and lions?” she asked, looking around carefully as they rode. It was frustrating, since she knew she wasn’t going to see anything that didn’t want to be seen. This would be the part in old movies where the heroine got separated from the expedition and someone had to rescue her, she told herself. Well, she wasn’t going to be so stupid.

  
“That’s some of them,” he agreed. “Don’t worry too much, though. Hero and Devil are pretty tough customers, and you and I are both armed. I’m not sure if Tim’s going to react properly, so we’ll try not to have any problems.”

  
“What’s ‘proper?’” wondered Donna, trying to figure out how much a rather light spear was going to help in the face of a charging lion. Answer, not much. “Stand fast, charge first, scream and faint, run away?”

  
“If you run, stay on the path,” he told her. “If you stand your ground, don’t let anything past your point. I don’t recommend scream-and-faint, or expect it. Charging first sometimes works, but not always, and may interfere with what I do. I wouldn’t suggest anything but running if we come across a buffalo. They’re nasty customers.”

  
“Lions and tigers and bears, oh, my!” quoted Donna, only half in jest. “Dorothy never had buffaloes to worry about. At least we don’t have witches and flying monkeys after us. Do we?”

  
“Well, no flying monkeys, anyway,” he said seriously. “And watch out for the piranha in the rivers, and quicksand, if we get separated. The Bandar hunt this area, so you won’t be lost long.”

  
“I’m not going to lose you, my dear Phantom,” she said firmly. “If I have to get Tim’s attention by hanging from his nose, he’ll be staying with you and Hero. Say, did anyone ever tell you that Hero looks a lot like Jungle King?”

  
“Hero is Jungle King,” her lover told her, leading them at that tireless trot up a steep bank. “The men who stole him from me called him that while they raced him.”

  
“Wow,” she said, impressed again. “He really is fast. No one believes he really ran those times, since he ‘quit’ racing. I’ll believe it, though, the way Tim has to hustle to keep up with him.”

  
“He can’t outrun a cheetah,” admitted the Phantom, “but not much else can even come close. Sometimes I’ve needed that speed, and been glad of it.”

  
Donna followed him down to a small stream, but Hero splashed across it without pause, so Donna urged the gelding after him. She didn’t want to hear about any of the times her lover had needed Hero’s speed right now. She would rather concentrate on what lay around them, and not be surprised. He didn’t seem worried, though, and gradually she realized that he was doing what she always did. That was, relying on the horse to tell him if there was danger. That wouldn’t work for her, since Tim wasn’t the old hand that Hero was in the jungle. Devil loped along in a kind of scouting position, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, often out of sight.

  
She felt far better this morning than she should have, she told herself with some secret pride, probing her nerve ends mercilessly. She’d ridden most of the day before, been dehydrated, had a vigorous sexual encounter in a cold water pool, then on a dirt surface, taken another cold bath, slept on a thinly covered stone bed, and had yet another enthusiastic romp, another cold soak, and now she was riding again. Apart from some muscle soreness that had nothing to do with riding a horse, she felt marvelous. Sex really must be good for you, she thought, smiling like a cat in cream. Most of you, anyway.

  
They passed a grove of rather strange trees, and Donna thought she could hear someone whispering his name. He explained that it was really only the wind in the trees, but many others had heard it that way, too, and called it the Phantom Grove, or the Whispering Grove. Others believed it haunted, and even sacred. He had camped in it with his sister and parents, when he was little.

  
At last, in early afternoon, their stomachs growling in hunger, they heard a waterfall in the distance. At her lover’s advice, Donna had elected to skip lunch in anticipation of an enormous dinner. They had stopped every hour for her to drink, going by some internal clock he carried in his head, without fail. The waterfall grew closer, and louder, until they came upon it, a tall cliff deeply carven by the torrent.

  
“This is one of the paths into the Deep Woods,” he told her above the sound. “It looks solid, but there is a passage behind the water. Follow Hero.” She tried to do so, but ended up covering the bay’s eyes before he would walk through the wall of water. Her polo shirt was soggy, but cool, as she put it back on and slogged out of the pool to the waiting trio on the dry ground.

  
“Hard on saddles,” she said, remounting. “But very refreshing. Aren’t there any guards?”

  
“They saw us long ago,” he assured her. “By now, the entire tribe is waiting for us. Feel presentable?”

  
“Oh, certainly, sopping wet and starving,” she said with a grimace. “At least they’re never going to see me look worse. No wonder you wear that outfit.”

  
Her reaction on seeing the valley was all he had hoped for, however, and contrary to her fears, she looked very nice by the time they came to the village. The place was built of pole frame buildings with thick thatch roofs and bright cloth hung as doors, or even walls. Thronged with tiny men and women, shouting and chanting, it was still dominated by the cliff face behind it, carved by wind and weather in the uncanny likeness of a human skull. Donna was taken with the vast bowl of grassy valley, a few horses visible a little way off, and the sheer green-ness of it.

  
“It’s beautiful, Kit,” she said softly. “Why, since I’ve never been here before, do I feel at home?”

  
“It is your home from now on, darling,” he told her just as softly. “And the people here love you already, even though they’ve never met you. You’ll see, they’re really very nice people.”

  
“Right, let’s go, then,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Can’t be any worse for me to meet your extended family than for you to meet my parents.”

  
“Only a few more names to remember,” he teased, as they rode down the slope. “Don’t worry, they’ll forgive you if you can’t remember all their names right away.”

  
“I never remember any name that doesn’t have four legs and a whinny attached to it. At least, not at first,” Donna admitted. “I’ll try, though.”

  
“I’ll bet they’ll go to great lengths to get you to remember their names,” he assured her. “Don’t worry about it. Remember ‘hello?’”

  
“Jam’ska,” she replied immediately. “I’ve been practicing. Is my accent still silly?”

  
“No, it’s fine,” he assured her. “That’s all you’ll need, dear. Look, see the tall man in khaki? That’s Dr. Dorn. He’s German, but speaks English and Bandar, as well as quite a few other languages. He’s been here for three years, has a double degree in human and veterinary medicine. If he thinks you did a good job on me, you can stop worrying. Or learn from him, if you want to.”

  
“I think I’ll learn, if he’ll teach me. A vet and a doctor, hmm?” Donna was impressed, and wondered if he knew his stuff. Often a double specialist would be less able in one field than another. Surely, that would not be the case here, though. ‘A princely salary,’ Kit had said.

  
“And that’s Guran,” he added, pointing. “The one in the palm-leaf hat. It’s the only real symbol of authority the Bandar have. Only the Chief wears one like it, you see.”

  
“I thought you said Guran was your assistant,” Donna said, puzzled. “How can he be the Chief, too?” The entire place seemed to be covered in flowers as they rode closer, she saw. Even the children wore necklaces of flowers, if nothing else.

  
“That’s one of the things about Bandar society, my lady Donna,” he told her with a melting smile. “Not much decision-making to be done on a daily basis. They’re not nomadic, so he doesn’t have to decide where to lead them. They’re not in conflict with anyone, or starving, or sick. About all he does is mediate a few domestic squabbles now and then, decide on the menu for feasts, if there’s an argument. Leaves lots of time for what he really likes to do, which is take care of me. He’s always thought of himself as my big brother and caretaker. A not entirely inaccurate portrait, I might add.”

  
“Will he mind me getting into the act?” she asked, a bit concerned about disrupting the relationship. “I don’t want to rock the boat.”

  
“He’ll be delighted, darling,” laughed the giant, happy to be home, to be with her. “You’ll just be added onto the list of things to be taken care of. Just take his nagging in the spirit he intends, and you’ll get along fine.”

  
“I’ll certainly try, lover,” she promised. “I got along with Mummy for years, who had nothing else to do but nag at me. Surely someone who loves you that much won’t be so bad as Mummy.”

  
“Oh, he’s not so bad as I’ve made him sound,” the Phantom said hurriedly, as they were about to be engulfed by short brown bodies. “Really.”

  
“Phantom, Phantom!” shouted many voices, as they came near enough to see clearly. “Welcome to your bride, o Ghost Who Walks!”

  
Totally without fear of the towering horses, the mob of pygmies danced around them, a few children held up to see Donna better. It seemed the right time to try out her only Bandarese.

  
“Jam’ska,” she said politely to the crowd near Tim’s right side. “I’m Donna McLaren.”

  
“Donna McLaren!” shouted the ones near her to all the others. “Donna McLaren!” Soon most of the group was chanting her name and clapping in rhythm. “Welcome, Donna McLaren, welcome to the Deep Woods!”

  
“Should we get off and walk, Kit?” asked Donna, a little concerned about all those bare feet so close to shod hooves. Tim was careful, but accidents could happen. They were now in the center of the village, a large grassy area in front of the Cave itself. A huge stone chair, engraved with skulls, all in white, dominated one side of the common, and a path to the other side led to a large fenced field.

  
“You can get off now,” he agreed, halting the white stallion. “If you want to take care of Tim, you’ll have lots of help. And the local ladies are just itching to get you off by yourself and get to know you. I can see the bath area is already set up for you.”

  
“Oh, that’s it for me, lover,” Donna exclaimed over the shouting crowd. “Point out one of the leaders and let’s get going!”

  
The Phantom called out something to the crowd, and a few older women came forward to stand at Donna’s stirrup. They wore bright sarongs and flowers of matching hues, and not much else. They smiled and laughed up at Donna and waved to her to follow them.

  
“In a moment, please,” she told them, getting off of Tim with a side dismount, so she could see where she was putting her feet. Hardly polite to accidentally step on someone, even if they were small. “I have to take care of my horse. He’s had a long week.”

  
“Come, then,” said the little woman in white-and-orange. “We will show you where to put his things. Then we will take you to the pool.”

  
“Lead on, then,” Donna agreed. “I am at your direction.”

  
“I am Jula,” said the dignified woman in the brilliant colors. “This is Konala, and this Danila. We will help you. Does this horse like people?”

  
“He likes most people,” said Donna, patting Tim’s neck as she followed the tiny Konala, who wore everything in pale yellow, a color Donna thought highly of on darker skinned folk. On her, it was not a good color. “If you feed him sweet bread, he’ll love you. But he won’t hurt you on purpose.”

  
“Good. My daughter, Zarala, likes horses. She would be happy to watch him for you, or even to take care of him, if you become too busy.” The grin on her face told Donna what sort of business Jula expected that to be. Donna blushed and the three women laughed, delighted to have their suspicions confirmed.

  
“Does Zarala know horses?” she asked, still red. “I mean, Tim is a good boy, but he’s big. I can teach her his tricks, if she wants.”

  
“If it is a horse, Zarala will love it,” Jula said, resigned. “She has even tried to seduce Hero, and has not yet given up. Put your saddle and other things here and someone will take them into the Cave when they are dry.”

  
Donna obediently stripped off Tim’s tack and hung it on the rail of a triangular rack. The Phantom was still back among his friends, squatting on his heels, talking to them. Hero stood, with a respectful distance around him empty, his head up, watching Tim. A tiny girl in white-and-green popped into view, seemingly from the ground itself, with a handful of grass.

  
“Here is the imp now,” said Jula fondly. “Zarala, this is Donna McLaren.”

  
“What’s his name?” piped the girl, stretching up to offer Tim the grass, unconcerned with his size. Her mother rolled her eyes at such a lack of manners.

  
“Tim,” said Donna, recognizing a kindred spirit. “Or, more formally, ‘Timon of Athens.’ No one really calls him that, though.”

  
“Can I help you with him?” asked the girl, eyes never leaving the gelding’s face as he accepted her offering. “He’s nice.”

  
“I’d be happy to have you help me, Zarala,” said Donna truthfully. “Do you ride?”

  
“I’m too small yet for horses,” she said sadly, patting Tim’s inquisitive nose. “I’m only ten.”

  
“Oh, I started riding when I was much younger than that,” Donna told her, picking her up so that she could see Tim more easily. “I started on a pony, you see. Don’t you have any ponies here?”

  
“No, no ponies, only horses,” said Zarala, eyeing Tim with care. “He’s thoroughbred. What does he do?”

  
“Whatever he’s asked,” Donna said proudly. “Watch. Tim, lie down.” The horse folded his legs and settled to the grassy earth with a grunt, suddenly in reach of even the tiny Zarala’s hands.

  
“Oh, does he do that for anyone?” cried Zarala, wiggling out of Donna’s grip to land easily and pet the big bay’s neck. “I could brush him if he’d do that for me.”

  
“All he needs is a little persuasion, like a treat,” Donna told her. “Show it to him, give him the command, then after he obeys, give him the treat. When you’re done, stand back, Zarala, say ‘Tim, up, get up.’ See, he’s easy. He loves sweet breads and fruit.”

  
“Enough, Zarala,” said Jula, becoming impatient with her daughter’s obsession. “Lady Donna will be here tomorrow to pester. You can watch her horse and take care of her things, but don’t go near him until she’s with you. Promise.”

  
“I promise, Mama,” the child said, looking at Tim with hungry eyes. “Lady Donna, what does he need now? I can make him a bran mash, or he can go in the pasture with the others.”

  
“Can I keep him in the paddock, here, tonight?” Donna asked, figuring that Zarala would know. “I’d like him to be used to the area a bit more before I turn him loose. Surely there’s water and enough grass.”

  
“I think so,” the pixie-sized girl said thoughtfully. “It doesn’t get used much, but the water’s good, and there’s shade from the _suli_ trees.”

  
“Good,” said Donna, picking the girl up and putting her on Tim’s broad back. “Where’s the gate? Oh, heel, Tim.”

  
The look of satisfaction on Zarala’s face silenced any complaint her mother might have voiced, as Donna led the unrestrained gelding into the lush grass pasture. The girl showed the New Zealander the water trough, and reluctantly surrendered her perch. Donna left the contented Tim, knowing he would likely never be without a friend again. Zarala stayed, watching from the fence, and promised that Donna’s tack would be cared for.

  
Jula and her friends finally got Donna into the bathing pool, a secluded area screened by convenient bushes. The silent Danila took Donna’s clothing away to be washed, smiling at her apology for how dirty they were. All around the poolside, as Donna soaked in the tepid water, were long, colorful pieces of cloth, all of fine cotton.

  
Konala produced a jar of green liquid for Donna’s hair and an antique silver-backed brush for after she had emerged from her bath. Towels and several pairs of sandals lay on a smooth rock, as well as a small hand mirror. Donna luxuriated in her bath, washing her hair and feeling decadent. A quiet argument between Jula and Konala over what she should wear finally got her moving again.

  
“That one is pretty,” she said, pointing at the green-and-white length that was much like Zarala’s. “Can I wear that?”

  
Dried off, and with Konala brushing out her hair, Donna was dressed in the favored cloth by the expert Jula. Sandals were found in her size and she looked in the offered mirror with some surprise. She actually looked rather nice, and wondered how it had happened.

  
“Wow, Jula,” she said, handing back the mirror. “You and Konala are really good at this. I’ve never looked this pretty before in my life.”

  
“Donna McLaren,” scolded Jula, who had apparently appointed herself mother-substitute, “don’t fib to me. You have very nice bones, and lovely hair. Your skin is very nice, if a bit pale. Your eyes are very pretty, and even your lips, with that sunburn, my dear, are pretty. Of course, you’re pretty. You just don’t know how to show it off, that’s all. Not that he’ll care, if you don’t.”

  
“I care,” said Donna, hugging the tiny woman impulsively. “He’ll notice, you’ll see. Thank you, Jula. Thank you, Konala.”

  
“Well,” said Jula, pleased with the praise and gratitude, “let us go and find out. Ah, you wear that style well. It is the long-boned ones who always show clothing off to it’s best advantage.”

  
“She has the shape we all wish to have,” agreed Konala, a bit enviously. She herself was rather pear-shaped, and had always secretly yearned to be taller. But perhaps not quite that tall, she said to herself.

  
“Zarala does, no doubt of it,” agreed Jula, leading them back toward the common area. The Phantom was nowhere to be seen, but Hero was in the pasture with Tim, bare of tack. “Do not let her become a nuisance, Lady Donna. She can talk of nothing but horses for hours. Be rid of her when you tire of her.”

  
“Oh, Jula, I couldn’t do that,” Donna said truthfully. “She’s just like I was at that age. I won’t mind a bit, really.”

  
“Well, she was very happy on your horse,” Jula admitted. “I worry about her getting hurt, you see.”

  
“We’ll be careful, Tim and I,” Donna promised her new friend. “Tim is very cooperative with children. He hates to have people fall off, too. Spoils his fun.”

  
They came to the area before the great chair, and Donna realized that it was a throne, raised several steps above the ground, and all of one piece. Several large mats were spread out, shaded by nearby trees in the afternoon. Jula had her sit down on the largest and instantly food and a juice drink were brought to her. People were everywhere, and all of them wanted to say a few words to her. Jula and Konala were apparently her guardians and keepers, for they decided when someone had said enough. Most just introduced themselves and wished her congratulations and good fortune, but some went on at great length, and these her protectors soon shut off and sent packing.

  
The food was an appetizer of sorts, banana and something else on little sticks. Donna tried not to eat too much, just enough to quiet her growling belly. What was keeping Kit, she wondered, missing him with an almost painful intensity. Then she saw a small group emerge from the mouth, quite literally, of the Skull Cave, his beloved purple shape among them. She almost jumped up to meet him, but restrained herself, trying to be dignified. He brought the tall man he had pointed out earlier, the doctor, she realized, over to see her, and the pygmy in the hat must be Guran, the Chief. Did one rise for a Chief, like a noble in the old days, she wondered in almost panic.

  
Guran gave her an almost courtly bow, elegant in spite of his portly figure and lamp-shade hat, relieving her fears on the subject of protocol. The Phantom sat beside her and put his arm around her, hugging her close.

  
“You look beautiful, Donna,” he whispered in her ear, kissing her cheek as she blushed, then winked at Jula, who grinned. Then he said a little louder, “this is Guran, Chief of the Bandar, my good friend, and Dr. Gunther Dorn, who has just now removed your stitches from my shoulder.”

  
“Donna McLaren,” began Guran eagerly, “welcome to the Deep Woods. We are happy that the Ghost Who Walks has finally found you. Long have we worried that he was alone, the Line endangered. Now he will not be alone, and he has someone to care for him as he deserves. He is a good man, and we love him, but now we love you, as well. Anything that you desire, we will try to provide. The tribe of Bandar and the Phantom Line have always helped each other, and you are part of our family now. Tonight, we feast in your honor, and celebrate our friend’s good fortune in finding you. M’shala, welcome home.”

  
“Oh, thank you,” said Donna, tears in her eyes. Only her lover’s arm around her shoulder kept her from crying like a baby. “I do feel like I’m home.”

  
“Fraulein McLaren,” said the doctor, one of the few tall people in the area. “I am honored to meet you. I congratulate you on your good fortune, and on your medical skill. The Ghost Who Walks tells me that it was you who sealed up the latest holes in his hide. A workman-like job, under the circumstances. Perhaps later you would like to discuss such things in greater detail? I am at your disposal, barring emergencies.”

  
“Thank you, Dr. Dorn,” replied Donna, much relieved. “I’d like to know how to do it better next time. Oh, I hope there isn’t a next time, but in case.”

  
“Ach, I know what you mean, Fraulein,” he laughed, hearty in spite of his lean frame. “But you marry the Phantom, _nicht wahr_? You may need to know.”

  
“Do you teach field surgery, emergency procedures, that kind of thing?” asked Donna, her arms going around Kit almost without thought.

  
“I can, whenever you have the time, Fraulein,” he said, bowing. “But surely not tonight, your betrothal feast.”

  
“Not tonight, no,” said her lover firmly, taking her hand. “Donna, our courtship was short, and anything but smooth. I wanted you to have this, sort of to make up for it, and try to be a little more normal. As an engagement ring, it’s a little late, but I hope you like it.”

  
Donna was stunned at the size of the sapphire on the broad gold band, and he slid it onto her finger without a protest, mainly because her mouth would not close to start speaking. By then it was on, and she couldn’t bring herself to object. It was much more solidly built than most jewelry of modern period pieces, more like a man’s ring than a woman’s, with the sapphire set in the ring, not simply clasped to it.

  
“Oh, Kit,” she said, still dazed. “It’s beautiful. Are you sure you want me to have this? I’ll probably get it all dirty.”

  
“Donna, I just spent ten minutes cleaning dust off of it,” he laughed, glad to have surprised her. “It’s only good if it’s worn, after all. Wait until you see the wedding ring.”

  
“Alright, but I’ll only wear it when I’m not around horses, Kit,” she agreed. “I’d hate to loose it, or something.”

  
“Ever practical,” he murmured, kissing her softly, to the pleased mutter of voices around them. She took his head in both hands and kissed him thoroughly, and many laughed in delight and clapped, as pleased as if they were being kissed. After a few moments, Donna became aware of an anticipatory silence around them.

  
“What are they waiting for?” she whispered in his ear as he kissed her neck. She held onto him as if to a racing horse, reveling in his touch, his scent. Somehow, he had found the time to bathe and change, for he now wore the silken thing she had first met him in.

  
“I think they’re hoping we’ll go beyond the kissing stage,” he told her just as softly, pressing her to him. “Care to indulge them?”

  
“You,” she said in a normal tone of voice, setting him back where he had been, “are a person of low humor and taste. My mother warned me about people like you. Good thing I didn’t listen, hmm? In public, yet. My, my.”

  
“No?” he asked innocently, picking up a wooden cup of water.

  
“Not ‘no,’ Kit,” she told him fondly. “Just ‘not yet.’ Patience. The night is young, and you are very tempting.”

  
“Ah, a reason to live,” he grinned at her, well aware of the delightedly scandalized looks and mutters all around them. The entire tribe would be at great pains to leave them alone every chance they got. His keen ears heard Jula consulting with Muzi, in Bandarese, on the subject of possible pregnancy.

  
“Lover,” said Donna, not particularly quietly, “if I don’t eat soon, I may have to eat you. I think I’m starving. I’ve never eaten as much in a week as I have since I met you.”

  
The Phantom observed, without seeming to, that Muzi and Jula both perked up at this remark. Guran and several other men vanished, to hurry the cooks, he suspected. The dancers were ready to enter the open space left for them, and Devil had a freshly killed haunch of boar to eat. The big man leaned back against the lowest step of the Skull Throne and let the evening proceed as it would. Old Man Moze was striding into the spotlight, so to speak, ready to run the show. The crowd sat down and quieted.

  
“Oh, Donna McLaren, betrothed to our great friend, the Ghost Who Walks, welcome to our homes, our hearts, and our lives,” he intoned, a voice rich with age and power. “Soon you will wed and increase our great joy with your union. All the good folk of the jungle shall rejoice with us, and many of those who dwell elsewhere. This night we honor your betrothal with a feast, and we will try to show you some of the world you will be a part of.”

  
A weird, hooting music began, and in the twilight a group of dancers enacted the hunt, chase and kill of an antelope, realistic enough to make Donna root for the deer, though silently. At the end of this bit of drama, a big wooden platter, on which a roast antelope lay, was carried in to be laid before the guest of honor. Banana leaves were stacked up like plates at each end, evidently for that very purpose. A dozen huge wooden dishes filled with other types of food were added to the bounty and everyone waited expectantly.

  
“You’re supposed to take the first share, darling,” her fiancé told her quietly. “You can use my knife, if you need to.”

  
“Yes, thanks,” she said nervously, accepting the blade. “Any particular part?”

  
“Whatever looks good, and comes off easily,” he advised. “Try the haunch, it has less bone in it.”

  
With some struggle, Donna got several cuts of meat off of the flank, well done, with crispy, fatty flakes. She put them on a banana leaf and then cut a few more for Kit, to the amusement of the crowd, who began to help themselves. The meat was delicious, and went down easily, followed by fruit juice and spring water. The rest of the food he advised her to just eat a little of, lest the unfamiliar stuff react badly with her un-acclimated stomach.

  
“Besides,” he teased, “you may not want to know what some of it is.”

  
“Don’t listen to him, Lady Donna,” piped up a small voice beside her. “It’s all good food, not bugs or anything. But some people have trouble in large doses at first. Dr. Dorn was sick a few times, I remember.”

  
“Okay, Zarala,” said Donna with a smile. “But I bet I’ve eaten some stuff stranger than anything here. I won’t try to tell you while we’re eating, though.”

  
“Do you want to know about Tim now?” asked the tiny girl, smeared with greasy food around face and hands. Everyone was decorated that way, as they ate with their hands. “Or tomorrow morning?”

  
“Are you finished eating?” Donna asked her, knowing how long this might last. With Hero in the corral with him, Tim would be unlikely to have problems. Zarala shook her head, a piece of antelope in her mouth. “Then tomorrow is soon enough, unless there’s a problem. Is there? No? Then go enjoy yourself and I’ll see you tomorrow at the corral. Right?”

  
The tiny girl nodded vigorously and scurried off. Her husband-to-be chuckled beside her and put some lumpy, yellowish stuff on her banana leaf. He added a little red mush and a few slices of what looked like a vegetable. He demonstrated by example how to eat the mush with the green slices, like dipping chips.

  
“Made a convert already, Donna?” he asked between bites. “I might have known Zarala would be one of the first. She’s got your fixation on horses. Adores Hero, at a distance, of course, has read everything she can find on horses. She can tell you the breeding of every horse here.”

  
“She knows the area, doesn’t she?” asked Donna, finding the food tasty, if odd. It was far more highly spiced than most foods she was used to back in New Zealand. “She’s so small, she could ride Tim with me and keep us out of trouble. I wish my old pony were still alive. Shaggy would have been good for her.”

  
“In my experience,” he said, adding some green-and-brown things to her ‘plate,’ “ponies are never good unless there’s something in it for them.”

  
“I guess you learned the same way I did,” she laughed, happy to the depths of her soul. “They can be little devils, can’t they?”

  
“Mine was, until I figured him out,” admitted her lover, adding more ‘chips’ to both their plates. “Do you like hot, spicy foods?”

  
“If they’re not too hot,” said the blond warily. “Why?”

  
“You might want to go easy on that white stuff with the green flecks. I don’t know what recipe they used today. Sometimes it’s mild, sometimes it’ll take the skin off of your tongue.”

  
“Mmm,” said Donna, trying it gingerly. “Not bad, a little more than I’m used to, but rather good. How much more do we have to eat? I’m stuffed like a Christmas goose.”

  
“Oh, already?” he asked, smiling at her smeary face and hands. So much for keeping her new ring clean. “We can leave whenever we want to, the party will go on without us. It might go on better without us, actually. People can’t discuss us with us here.”

  
“Then let me finish my plate and then you can show me where we live,” said Donna, a sparkle in her eye that told him she wasn’t all that full. “I haven’t any idea where I’m sleeping tonight, you know.”

  
“I know precisely where you’ll sleep, my dear lady,” he told her fondly. “And it occurs to me that you haven’t had a nap all day. Breaking your pattern?”

  
“I haven’t had a pattern to break since I met you,” she retorted, scooping up another chipful of yellow stuff. “It’s kind of fun, when you’re not bleeding on things.”

  
“Are you happy, Donna?’ he asked, wondering how he could be any happier. He hadn’t felt this way since he was a child. “Do you think you’ll be happy living here?”

  
“Oh, Kit, dearest,” she said swallowing a lump in her throat that wasn’t food. “I’m so happy now I might cry at any moment. I’m getting you and all these other wonderful friends, and a beautiful place to live, as well. I’ve never been so happy in my life. It’s like the ending of all those fairy tales, only real.”

  
“Then come home to bed, Donna dear,” he said, his voice that caress that told her more than words that he loved her. “I’ll show you everything.”

  
“Yes, darling,” she said obediently. He rose to his feet with practiced ease, and handed her up with careful strength. Several people called out to them as they left, some pummeled by their neighbors for what Donna guessed were ribald comments. Then the celebration was behind them, and their home took her attention.

  
It was obvious that Hero had often been at least as far as the large first cavern. Hoof marks on the cave floor told that, and several racks of horse gear, including hers, stood just inside the entry. Torches lit the place, dramatic and atmospheric, set in iron sconces above stone benches. At least two more passages opened off of the first, the floor smooth and dry, rising as they went further in.

  
The next room was full of radio equipment, lit not by torches, but by a lantern, turned low. A hand crank apparently provided power, for not even static was audible. Donna wondered if she could call home on such equipment without Kit’s help and ask her parents to bring a case of peaches with them to the wedding.

  
The next room was larger and better lit, filled with huge books, a writing desk, a massive chair and shelved tomes. It was hung with various intriguing bits of bric-a-brac and several tapestry works, perhaps to deaden sound. The room fairly cried out to Donna of history, adventure and daring, for this was where the Chronicles were kept. Twenty-two generations of the Oath fulfilled against overwhelming odds. She promised herself she would spend some time in that room.

  
Only a short way down the passage, a large room opened up, the door open, but curtained in heavy purple velvet. It was the Skull Cave’s equivalent of the master bedroom. Inside was a large bed, a canopy style thing big enough for an orgy. Heavy, antique-looking furniture was scattered about, sitting on animal pelt rugs. There was an iron stove near the bed, and several cords of wood for it somewhat further away. The sound of running water drew her to an alcove that held a small pool, a basin and an ingenious arrangement of cane pipes to fill them.

  
“A bathroom with indoor plumbing,” exclaimed Donna in delight. “With soap and towels and everything! Can I try it out, Kit?”

  
“Donna, you live here now,” he said patiently. “You don’t need to ask me that. Here, this is how it works.”

  
Hands and faces clean, they ended up sitting on the wide bed, holding hands and snuggling in the cool cavern. The bed was made up and turned down, the pillows large and thick, the mattress firm, but comfortable. Donna was quite willing to go on like that all night, except that it was actually too cold to do so.

  
“Come to bed with me, Kit,” she begged, kissing him.

  
“I thought you’d never ask, dear heart,” he said softly to her, his voice making her body tighten with desire. He took off his costume while she watched and turned down all the lights. He approached her carefully and gently took off her sandals, seeing her body tremble, her eyes bright with un-shed tears. He tenderly untied her sarong and unwrapped her, almost like a present, kissing thoroughly each newly revealed treasure.

  
Donna felt choked with desire and love, no longer cold, but a flame of passion, burning bright. They spent the next few hours in passionate loveplay, the sounds of their exertion and fulfillment muffled by the curtain across the door to nearly nothing. But at least one set of ears detected them, and went away quite satisfied. Guran had no doubts on the prepotency of the Phantom Line. If Donna wasn’t pregnant now, it would not be long before she was. Muzi had best keep an eye on her.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tour the Cave

Unaware of the decision the Chief had made, the two eventually slept in sated exhaustion, twined together in a tangle of limbs that ached with pleasure fulfilled. The damp evidences of their satisfaction bothered them not at all, and were noticed only the next morning. They were soon joined by yet another as Donna threw her lover to his naked back and had her way with him again, riding him to a figurative lather and an explosive orgasm.

  
“Donna, darling,” he told her, as she lay panting and twitching across his own heaving body, “we can’t stay in bed forever. You haven’t even seen the rest of the Cave, yet.”

  
“I can stay in bed as long as you can,” she smirked, licking his sweaty chest. “But I’ll get up if you insist. Don’t expect any such mercy on our honeymoon, though.”

  
“Wanton wench,” he said, kissing her as he sat up. “It’s you that will beg for mercy then, and you won’t get it unless you’re very, very good.”

  
“Or maybe very, very bad?” she said slyly, wrapping herself in her sarong. It didn’t look right when she did it. Well, it would last long enough to get her to a bath. She wondered what time it was, unable to tell in the Cave. “Oh, darling, I need a bath, and something to eat. You are going to keep me skinny through exercise, or I’m going to get fat, I’m hungry so often.”

  
“Oh, I don’t think you’ll ever be fat, Donna,” he said, opening an antique wardrobe and pulling out a pair of silken robes. “You’re much too physically active, shall we say? Although, this kind of activity often leads to a certain weight gain.”

  
“I know,” she said smugly, accepting the robe and taking off the sorry-looking sarong. “I’m working on it.”

  
“Come on, I’ll show you the bathroom,” he told her, taking her hand. “You’ll love this.”

  
“I haven’t seen anything I don’t like yet,” she said, following him back into the passage. They left the curtain hung back, to show that they were up, and proceeded, looking in on several unused chambers meant for children. Then the sounds of water met their ears and the source of the Cave’s water became evident.

  
Ages past, an underground stream had carved most of the passages out, now it was confined to this chamber and a few others. A continuous flow went through a basin carven by both man and nature. Soap, towels, shampoo and other articles sat on a tray near the edge. Donna was entranced.

  
“Oh, Kit, it’s warm!” she exclaimed in amazement, seeing steam rising. “How did you do that?”

  
“I didn’t, Donna,” he laughed as she plunged into the large pool. “I’m sure some of my forebears did a little work on the stone, but only nature could make it warm. You have to try it every day, though, because sometimes it’s too hot. Volcanic, of course.”

  
“Come on in, lover,” she invited, stretching. “I’ll scrub your back if you’ll scrub mine.”

  
“I’d rather scrub fronts,” he teased, getting in with a splash that made her squeal. “Donna, stop that. People are going to be wondering what we’re doing, getting up so late.”

  
“No, people are going to know what we’re doing,” she giggled, scrubbing vigorously at her tanning arms. “My, I’m going to have to start sunbathing in the nude or something. I’m getting a farmer’s tan.”

  
“Is that bad?” he asked, thinking that her face looked even more beautiful with a little more color. He decided not to say so, however, and finished his bath with a gentle, firm massage of Donna’s back and shoulders. When he was finished, she was as relaxed as an old shoe, and growing hungry. Dressed in silk and with a towel turban on her wet hair, they went back to their bedroom, hand in hand.

  
“Where’s your ring, Donna?” he asked, thinking she needed a pair of slippers. Two pair, really, one for summer, one for winter.

  
“I took it off last night, Kit,” she said contritely. “I forgot to put it on this morning. I didn’t want to scratch you with it while we were, uh, occupied. I may need a string to keep it around my neck. I really like it, I just don’t want to wear it all the time, on my finger, anyway. I’m not used to rings, I guess.”

  
“Oh, we can fix that,” he said airily. “Get dressed and I’ll show you how.”

  
“Sure, if you show me how to wear one of those things,” Donna told him, relieved that he hadn’t been insulted about the ring. “Jula makes it look easy, but it’s not.”

  
“What makes you think I can do better?” he laughed, as they entered their bedchamber. “Your things should be here by tomorrow or the next day, dear. But I think you’ll be able to find something to wear until then.”

  
Their room had been cleaned up, the bed linen changed, the green-and-white sarong taken, replaced with a variety of cotton shorts, wraparound skirts, and blouses. Displayed on every surface of the room, there were some innovative styles, to Donna’s discerning eye. His costume was neatly folded on a single space in the center of the bed, his boots and gunbelt set carefully at the center of the foot of the elaborately carved footboard.

  
“Well, I guess that tells me where I rate,” he chuckled, hanging up his robe and picking up a piece of blue cotton in the shape of a very generous bodice. “I rather like this one.”

  
“No support when riding,” she said, eyeing it, but she took it from him as he hung up her robe for her. “Someone sure thinks I’ve got more up front than I do, too.”

  
“They’ll be glad to tailor it to fit,” he assured her, beginning to don his own clothing. “All this got made last night or this morning, so it’s either from patterns based on your travel clothes, or from personal observation and guesses. It’s hard for someone the size of the Bandar to estimate sizes for people so much larger. They wouldn’t try for someone they didn’t like.”

  
“Right, I’ll try it on,” she said, smiling up at him. “But I’ll need something much snugger to ride in. And something for my lower half, too.”

  
“I don’t see any jeans, dear,” he told her, watching her fit herself into the bodice. It was, in fact, tight enough to give her cleavage. She looked surprised, then pleased, especially after seeing his admiring look. “On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t wear that outside. I like the way it looks inside. And you look like an invitation to any male in sight.”

  
“Huh,” she snorted, searching for something to go with her chosen top. “Anyone but you tries to have me gets handed his head. Or other appropriate body parts. You won’t need to rescue me, Kit, just pick up the remains of the un-wise.”

  
“That green skirt looks nice with that blue color,” he commented as she held it up. He enjoyed watching her move, as unselfconscious as a cat. “Does it fit?”

  
“Wrap skirts always fit,” she told him, demonstrating. “But they’re drafty, and exposed, you see? I don’t want any jungle bug deciding it can poach on your private territory, either.”

  
“What about these, then,” he said, picking up what at first seemed a layered series of thin skirts. “Turkish trousers, I think they’re called.”

  
“That’ll do nicely,” Donna said in satisfaction. “At least until I can find my jeans. I don’t want to tempt fate by walking around through plants I don’t know. Poison ivy is not what I want before my wedding.”

  
“Around here, the equivalent is _shula_ vine, or _talla_ weed,” he told her, liking the way she looked in the new clothes. “Your skin isn’t going to be white very long like that, Donna, if you go out in the sun. Take something to cover up with later, or promise you’ll stay in the shade. Sunburn’s just as painful as _shula_ vine can be.”

  
“Hmm, that, maybe?” she said, picking up the thinnest pale green cloth there. It was a loose, almost gauzy weave, and cut full, with long sleeves. She put it on over the bodice and liked the effect, a sort of see-through blouse tunic. “Yes, I need footgear. Where’s those sandals from last night?”

  
“I’m not sure,” he said, pulling on his own boots. “But you might try those moccasin things there, for now.” A row of sandals and loose shoes, as well as her polished paddock boots, sat next to a chest, but no socks were to be found, so she took his suggestion, a loose pair of deerskin slippers.

  
“Well, I look a little like I’m dressed for a costume party,” she said to him, as he took her hand and placed the ring on it again. “But I think I’m ready.”

  
“Let’s brush your hair out, dear,” he said, taking the towel off of her hair. “It’ll be dry soon.”

  
“Oh, thanks,” she said, blushing. “I forgot.”

  
“Never forget about your hair, darling Donna,” he advised, brushing the damp strands smoothly back from her face. “It’s very nice hair, and I like the way it looks and feels. Not that wispy hair blondes have, like spider webs, or that coarse stuff that I have, like horse hair. Yours is like real hair, if you see what I mean.”

  
“Your hair isn’t coarse, Kit,” she told him, still blushing. “It’s strong, thick hair. I like it, you know. It lets me hang onto your head at appropriate times. And I like running my hands through it.”

  
“Why thank you, kind lady,” he said, kissing her hand and putting brush and towel on an ancient trunk near the bed, the same one her choices of footwear had been lined up against. “Now, the rest of the Skull Cave, or the outside world?”

  
“Where can I get something to eat besides you?” she asked, holding the huge purple form close.

  
“Outside in the village. We don’t keep food in here, it attracts vermin. Some papayas, mangos, bananas, that sort of thing alright?”

  
“Oh, yes,” she said as he took her hand and led her back outside. “Tropical fruit for breakfast, or maybe for brunch. Or lunch. No wonder I was hungry, Kit, it’s almost noon.”

  
“I told you, dear,” he grinned, as several pygmies waved at them. “But I don’t regret your impetuosity one bit. Here, have a banana. We’d better go look in on Tim.”

  
“Tim has Zarala to watch him,” Donna pointed out, a small figure on a shaded fence rail visible from the village. “He’s going to start thinking I’m spending too much time with you, and seduce her into pampering him. He might even get jealous.”

  
“He won’t have to work at getting Zarala to like him,” the Phantom told her, tossing a mango pit into the brush. He picked a piece of green fruit from a tree and split it with his knife. “Here, eat the pulp, not the seeds.”

  
“Mm. This is good. All I want to do in this heat is let him know I’m still here. Do you have to do, well, Phantom things?”

  
“Not at the moment, darling,” he said, spitting out seeds. “I’m still waiting to finish showing you your new home. Later in the day it will cool off some, and you’ll feel more like doing something.”

  
“Right,” she said, finishing her mystery fruit. “Hello, Zarala.”

  
“Good morning, Lady Donna,” said the tiny girl politely. “Tim is fine. He’s also very friendly. He licked my hand. Good morning, Phantom.”

  
“He’s very sweet tempered,” agreed Donna, and whistled. The gelding, who had been drowsing in the shade with Hero, picked up his head and looked around, trying to spot his human. “He doesn’t recognize the outfit. Here, Tim, over here.”

  
Her horse began walking toward them, lazy with the heat. Hero followed him, gleaming in the sun, but with a grass stain on one shoulder. Tim blew noisily on Donna’s hand and nuzzled her shoulder. She patted him, scratched his itchy spot and talked to him. In the shade, with his human, the gelding was content, his head hung over the railing. Zarala edged over to pat him as Donna had and he sighed an equine sigh of pleasure and contentment. The Phantom patted Hero, so that he wouldn’t interfere.

  
“I’ll be back out to ride him this afternoon, Zarala,” Donna told the little girl. “Would you like to come with us? You could tell me where not to go, what’s bad for horses, that sort of thing, right?”

  
“Oh, Lady Donna, yes!” exclaimed the girl in excitement. “I will wait here for you. Should I wear anything different? All the books say shoes and helmets, but I don’t have any.”

  
“Oh, we won’t do anything that requires a helmet this time,” Donna assured her. “And I’ll be riding with you, so you probably won’t need shoes. If you do, we’ll improvise.”

  
“Should I bring Tim’s tack and brush out here?” she asked, willing to do anything to earn Donna’s approval. “I cleaned the saddle and bridle last night, and brushed off his pads. Uncle Guran, o Ghost Who Walks, let me use the oil for your saddle. I asked first.”

  
“What’s mine is hers, Zarala,” the Phantom told the girl, Hero’s head over his shoulder. “Just make sure it’s alright with your mother first.”

  
“I already asked her,” said the tiny girl triumphantly. “She said I can help Lady Donna as long as she wants me to.”

  
“Then I can bring the tack down, Zarala,” Donna said, aware of how heavy her old Steuben saddle would be for the tiny brown girl. “Or you can bring all but the saddle, if you prefer.”

  
“Well, it was a little heavy,” admitted the girl, petting the contented Tim. “But I carried it on my head like a water jar, and didn’t scratch it.”

  
“Then I’ll do it this afternoon, alright?” said Donna, hugging her new friend. “You’ll need to save your energy for riding, right?”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” said the little girl obediently, finding that she, too, could itch Tim’s scratchy spot.

  
Donna and her giant fiancé went back to the Cave, a few Bandar greeting them as they passed. The women of the village watched closely to see what she had chosen to wear, and to see if she was pregnant yet. Some argued that she hadn’t come out until noon, perhaps she had morning sickness. Others insisted that other activities were more likely to account for that.

  
Back in the Cave, hunger and duty satisfied, Donna’s curiosity bit her sharply, and she was willing tourist to the Phantom’s guide. The Library and Armory, both large chambers, were near the main cavern, but the Library was quite large. It was crammed with books, desks and chairs, with carefully designed lamps to prevent fires. Much of the furniture was pygmy sized and an older woman in a robe of rainbow colors greeted them from a desk near the doorway.

  
“Lady Donna, Phantom,” she said in very British English. “My congratulations to you both. May you be happy together for many years. I am Tula, the librarian. Also many other things, but this has become my work.”

  
“My father left the place rather disorganized,” Kit explained to his near-wife, almost apologetically. “Tula has put everything in order and we couldn’t find anything without her.”

  
“Oh, it wasn’t just your honored father, Phantom,” laughed the woman. “No one ever tried to put it in order for four hundred years. Treasures piled in corners, stacked on shelves, covered by cobwebs, full of dust. It has been my favorite place ever since I could read. I began to order it before your father passed the title on to you, young Phantom. Now I look at it as a holding action, keeping it neat, trying to give others the chance at such riches.”

  
“I know I shall be seeing a lot of you, Tula,” Donna said, smiling. “Few things can keep my attention like a good book. Although, lately, I’ve found another.”

  
“But when he is away, I will be here,” promised the brown woman, smiling. “And I will tell you all about where he has gone and why. And you can tell me all about your country, your horse, how you met, everything.”

  
“That’s a deal,” said Donna, waving as her lover took her back out the door. He suspected that Donna would not be left behind often.

  
“The Armory,” he told her, at the next chamber. “Weapons of all kinds. We can probably find you a trail knife, and even a saber to fence with, in here. See, they’ve put your lance in the place of honor.”

  
“Over that shield is the place of honor?” she asked, surprised. It was a small, round leather thing, decorated with feathers and paint, paint in the shape of that odd design on his left ring. It was low on the wall, she could reach her spear easily.

  
“The shield is the divining instrument of the great shaman Buli, or one of them. It’s supposed to give weapons potency and their owners luck. Or the other way around, or something like that. The Bandar and Guran believe it, anyway.”

  
“How’s this?” he asked, picking up a plain steel knife of about a foot in length, including hilt.

  
“Perfect for a trail knife, a little short for fencing,” she said, staring around in wonder. Guns, knives, swords, spears, bows and pikes were racked around the room. On the walls hung arquebuses, matchlocks, ancient dueling pistols, crossbows, even a small cannon squatted in a corner. “That’s a blade I’d like to try, though.”

  
“That one?” he asked, placing the steel knife before Buli’s shield. “It belonged to my mother. She took it from a pirate queen in Indonesia once. Said it had good balance.”

“Oh,” said Donna as he handed it to her. “She was right. Very nice balance. I like it. I’ll take you on with this, o Ghost Who Walks, if you promise to take it easy on me the first time.”

  
“Donna, you should be the one promising to take it easy on me,” he protested mildly, placing the saber with the knife. “I’ll let Guran know that these are yours, now, and he’ll have sheaths made for you. Unless you want that match now?”

  
“Not today, lover,” she said, grinning at him in pure happiness. “I’ve had my exercise for the day with you. Tonight, I’ll be ready to work out some more, though. Got to keep in shape, you know.”

  
“Wear down your opponent, you mean,” he said, kissing her neck as they walked down the corridor. “This is where your ring came from, darling. I think we could find you a chain for it in here.”

  
Donna stared in amazement at what must be the ‘Minor Treasure Room.’ A lantern sat on the niche carved beside the door, and illuminated a sea of sparkling glitter. Chests of oak and bronze sat open, their shimmering contents exposed in the light. Gold coins, jewelry, gems and objects encrusted with pearls lay here and there on the stone floor, carelessly fallen from this or that container. Urns of alabaster and malachite held cut stones of ruby and diamond, jade bowls overflowed with sapphires and pearls. Several cloth bags stacked in one corner had split with age, spilling golden ingots as if they were common sand. Emeralds lay on a platter of tarnished silver, and here and there lay pieces of stuff Donna could not identify, but which gleamed expensively.

  
“It’s a little unorganized,” he said apologetically, “but I recall seeing a gold chain that would work. If I can just remember where …”

  
“Kit,” said Donna after several attempts, “never let my mother near this room. She’d never leave. It could use a little tidying. You’re liable to step on something and hurt yourself. At least get the stuff off the floor or into a corner.”

  
“It was neater a few months ago,” he said, poking through a dish of gold and ivory, the contents an array of golden gewgaws, some in the shape of holy symbols, others heraldic animals. “Every time I’ve been in here, lately, I’ve been in a hurry. Ah, try this one. It’s not too heavy, is it?”

  
He handed her a slender gold chain, each link a loop of gold linked to four others. It was far heavier than such a chain would have been in Auckland’s jewelry stores, and obviously quite old from the ancient design of the clasp. It felt like a limp piece of cable in her hand, soft and strong. She put the thing around her neck and it felt good, as if it had been made for her. It came over her head easily, and the look of it around her neck pleased her husband-to-be, she could tell.

  
“It will do very nicely, Kit. Thank you,” she said, seeing his pleasure at her reactions. She kept forgetting how good he was at noticing things, and he’d noticed her open-mouthed astonishment at the casual display of wealth. “Why’s it so much heavier than I’m used to?”

  
“It’s very old, loot from the pirate fleet that used to moor off of Ivory-Lana. Several hundred years ago, gold was usually purer than what’s used today. It’s too soft, you see, to last long. That piece is probably made from Inca gold, originally, brought back to Spain and made into a chain for some grandee. Don’t worry, if it gets worn down, we’ll find you another.”

  
“Gee, I’m wearing history,” said Donna, impressed. “What about the ring?”

  
“Can’t say,” he admitted. “It was sapphire, it looked like it was your size, and it was pretty. An awful lot of this stuff is, well, baroque, to say the least. Ugly things covered with gemstones are rarely improved, but some people seem to think so. And the proof is all around you. This, for instance.”

  
In his hand lay a horse’s bit. It followed the pattern of a Spanish-style pelham, long shanked and high ported. But it appeared to be made of gold, the surface of the shanks crusted with rubies and emeralds. That kind of bit could exert tremendous pressure and pain on a horse’s mouth, and only expert hands, in Donna’s opinion, should touch one.

  
“A golden bit,” she said in disbelief. “Quite aside from the fact that it’s vicious and ugly, why would anyone make a bit from gold? I had a steel snaffle break once, and Shaggy almost killed me. Anything you used that on would probably chew through it and then turn on you in revenge.”

  
“I always liked to think it was a trophy,” he said, putting the bit back in a chest full of gaudy, glittery things. “You know, like some of those silver cups in racing. Never really used, just displayed, so people would know you had a fast horse.”

  
“Well, it is a better explanation than just showboating,” she admitted. “The Golden Bit Derby, or the Useless Pelham Classic, maybe. I’d never put it on Tim, even for play, but it would make people stare.”

  
“Are you ready to see the Major Treasure Room?” he asked, picking up a cabochon-cut emerald and tossing it into an already overflowing jar. “Or are you going to gape like a landed fish again?”

  
“I’ll try to keep my mouth shut,” she promised, her eyes dancing at his teasing. “I wasn’t prepared for this, Kit. I was expecting a safe or two, not the treasures of the Indies. My mother would have died happy on the spot, you know.”

  
“Your mother won’t see it, because I don’t want you to lose a parent, darling,” he told her with a sad smile. Donna felt a pang of guilt because her parents were both alive and his dead. How could she have been so thoughtless as to remind him of such a thing? “Think of the Christmas presents you can send her, though.”

  
“Oh, Daddy would fuss at how expensive they were,” sighed Donna, “and Mummy would be pleased. I can see her at her bridge club now, showing off some brooch and not even realizing that it’s ugly, just because it has opals on it. She’s got enough of things like that, I think.”

  
“Well, it was worth a try,” he chuckled. “Now, close your eyes, my lady.” He led her into the room and turned the lamp up a bit. “Remember that everything in this room has some significant place in history, religion or science. Don’t touch anything without asking first, as many are far older than the Line.”

  
“I promise to be good,” Donna said, clasping her hands together in front of her like a child in a toy store. “Can I open my eyes now?”

  
“Yes,” he said, standing behind her, hands on her shoulders. “Tell me what you see.”

  
“Swords,” she said thoughtfully. “Old, European, maybe tenth or twelfth century. A rock crystal cup, a jar with a dead snake in it, an idol, very old, Hindu, probably. A very old instrument, maybe Mediterranean, pre-Roman empire, possibly a lyre. A very nice Persian carpet, several paintings in the Old Master style, a very pretty vase that looks Chinese, maybe Ming or Han Dynasty. An ivory hunting horn, European, Middle Ages, a short whip, very nasty. A big book, leather bound, with jeweled clasps and lock, a red dragon embossed on it. A very nice set of Japanese swords, type and age unknown, an odd sort of hammer, a very large red crystal with several kris-style knives set into it.”

  
“There are more things in the cabinets and cases,” he told her, pleased that she could identify so much. “The swords are Excalibur and Durandel, they belonged to Arthur and Roland. The horn was Roland’s, too. The cup is actually a single diamond, and once was Alexander’s cup. The snake was the asp that bit Cleopatra. The idol is sacred to the cult of Shiva, the Destroyer. The lyre was supposed to be Homer’s instrument, three thousand years ago, on which he composed the Odyssey. The carpet was woven by Haroun al-Rashid, an Arabic wise man, and is supposed to be able to fly, if the words are said that are written around the edge of it. I spent hours trying, when I was little.”

  
“I’ll bet,” she said, picturing it. “I would have, too.”

  
“The paintings are ‘lost works’ by Titian, da Vinci and Raphael. The vase is indeed Ming. The whip belonged to Atilla the Hun. The book was supposed to be Merlin’s, a spell book. The katana and wakizashi are supposed to have belonged to Musashi, a legendary figure of Japan. The hammer is supposed to be Mjolnir, the weapon of Thor, the Norse god of thunder, though I have my doubts, since mortals are not supposed to be able to lift the true hammer of Thor, and I have no trouble, even if it is heavy. The ruby is supposed to be the Heart of the World, according to Tibetan myth. When the last dagger is set into it, the world will end, so the tale goes.”

  
“Let’s not do that, then,” said Donna, impressed with the history represented in the room. “I’m not even used to you, yet. Darned if I’m going to let some chunk of rock stop me from using you up first. I don’t believe most of that religious stuff, anyway, but why take chances?”

  
“Using me up?” he asked, holding her close to him and kissing her neck. “Care to elaborate?”

  
“Sure, gorgeous,” she sighed, rubbing his silken thighs. “I figure that’ll take me exactly my lifetime to accomplish. Not a time-frame I can specify, but a lot longer than that dagger thing sounded like it’d be.”

  
“I’m sure that won’t happen very soon,” he assured her. “I saw the last dagger tossed into a river of molten lava two years ago. You aren’t the only one who wants the world to go on a little longer. My sister did that.”

  
“Good for her,” said Donna, having an idea. “Have you invited her yet?”

  
“No,” he admitted, turning down the lamp as they turned to leave. “I haven’t done anything about that today. You’ve kept me too busy.”

  
“What do you do, call her on the radio?” Donna asked, as they came to another room. All had doors, but few had been closed. This one contained racks of glassed-in costumes, preserved like a museum collection.

  
“That’s what I’ll do with most of the rest of the guests,” he said, turning up the light. “I’ll need to go to Mawitaan to ask Lamanda to officiate, but that should only take a few days. Some folk who should be there will need written invitations. I can deliver them then.”

  
“Then let’s go call her up,” Donna said, seeing that many of these costumes were ripped, cut and stained. “Why are these clothes in such bad shape?”

  
“These were usually the costumes my ancestors died in,” he told her. “The few that are missing include my father’s, as his body was badly burned in the crash. The next room is the Crypt, where all the Phantoms before me are buried. If you’d prefer to skip that one, it can wait.”

  
“Just a quick look, Kit,” she said, shivering. “I’d rather not be reminded just how mortal you are. I have enough problems forgetting you bleeding on me, still, I don’t want to think about you being dead. Again.”

  
“Not for a while, yet, dear heart,” he told her, holding her close to quiet her shivering. “As you said, I haven’t used you up, yet.”

  
“Then let’s not and say we did,” Donna said, kissing him fiercely. “I’d rather watch you call your sister. Are you going to let me watch, or shall I go play with Tim and Zarala while you discuss my breeding?”

  
“Oh, you can stay,” he said, leading her out of the room and back down the dark passage. “You might want to talk to your parents now and then, so you should see how.”

  
“I do want to have them bring a few things with them,” admitted the New Zealander. “But one of them is a surprise, so I don’t want you to listen, if it’s all the same to you, darling.”

  
“I’ll go far enough away that you can talk to them and not come back until you call, if you like,” he said, trustingly, wondering what she wanted to surprise him with. “Is that good enough?”

  
“Perfect, Kit,” she said, feeling much better with his arm around her. It was hard to hold on to him with his guns on, though. “I need to get a pony for Zarala, too. Eventually, our children will need one, anyway.”

  
“I’ll look around when I go to talk to the President,” he promised, startled. “You aren’t, I mean, you’re just planning ahead, right?”

  
“Oh, I don’t think I’m pregnant yet, no,” she told him cheerfully. “I’ll know for sure in the next few days. Which would be an excellent time for you to be elsewhere, by the way. Three or four days worth of no sex is enough to make me very bad-tempered.”

  
“Oh,” he said, thinking these things over. Light dawned. “Oh, yes, perhaps I’ll go see Lamanda in a few days. But, now, dear, watch closely. I’m going to call up Heloise on her private line.”

  
“Where do you get the power from?” she asked, having been under the impression that this sort of thing required electricity of some kind.

  
“A small water-powered generator installed by the bath,” he told her. “All the power we need. I’m going to put in electric lights, soon. Safer than the lanterns, I think, especially for the Library. Guran wants to keep the torches in the entry, but I don’t know.”

  
“Oh, they’re very atmospheric,” she agreed, watching him carefully. “Just out of curiosity, can this sort of thing be traced?”

  
“Not easily,” he said, plugging in a hand set. “It goes through a satellite link. Ah, ringing now. Heloise?”

  
“This is Heloise,” said a voice with remarkable clarity, rather than the static that Donna had half expected. The voice came from a speaker by the handset’s cord. “Is that you, Kit?”

  
“It’s me, Sis. I’ve got good news for you, for once. I’m getting married. Can you be at Keelawee on the fourth?”

  
“Married!” exclaimed the voice, an alto from the sound, Donna thought. “I can be there in a week. Who is she?”

  
“Donna McLaren, of Papakura, New Zealand, and she’s sitting right here,” he warned. “You’ll like her, she’s your kind of lady. Mandy liked her, too.”

  
“That’s promising,” said Heloise’s voice, thoughtfully. “Do you need anything?”

  
“Only the usual,” he said, grinning at Donna. “And she says she wants a nice pony, for the children to ride.”

  
A choking noise came from the grill.

  
“Children,” said Heloise, finally. “Already?”

  
“Just planning ahead,” he assured his sister, grinning at his convulsing fiancée. “A young pony, six or seven, maybe.”

  
“I’ll see what I can arrange,” said the voice firmly. “Nothing else, no material for the wedding gown, no medical supplies?”

  
“Not at the moment. I’ll call you if we do need that. She’s not very material, except for her horse stuff. If you could find something light-weight to ride in, like cotton breeches, she’d really appreciate it. Size, uh, Donna?”

  
“Thirty, long,” said the blondish Kiwi, still smiling.

  
“Thirty, long, Heloise,” he said, having no idea what that meant. “Got that?”

  
“Yeah, little brother,” said the voice. “Congratulations to you both. Don’t get into any trouble before the wedding without me, okay?”

  
“I’ll try, Sis,” he told her, “but you know how it is.”

  
“That’s why I said it,” his sister sighed. “I gotta go, Kit. An operative’s on the emergency line. I’ll see you soon.”

  
“Bye, Sis,” he said, and broke the connection.

  
“Oh, that was sneaky, Kit,” laughed Donna. “Children, hmm?”

  
“Well, you did it to me,” he smiled, resetting the switches. “Ready for your parents? It goes like this. Search for the satellite, there it is, see? Then you dial the phone code in, like a real land phone, go ahead. Then you plug in the hand set and wait for it to ring.”

  
“I’ll bet only Mummy is home right now,” Donna said, as the phone rang on the other end of the line, clearly audible from the speaker. “Hello?”

  
“Hello, this is Geoffrey McLaren,” said the voice from the speaker. “Who’s this?”

  
“This is Donna, Daddy,” she told him, surprised at how good the sound was. He might have been in the next room. “Why are you at home at this hour? I expected to get Mummy.”

  
“I had a meeting that ended early,” he told her, the gruffness of his voice softening. “How are you doing, Donna? Everything alright? Where are you calling from?”

  
“Everything is wonderful, Daddy,” she told him, held gently for a moment before her lover left, closing the door, a heavy oaken thing bound in bronze. “I’m calling via satellite from my new home. Kit set it up. Oh, Daddy, he’s so ripper, and I’m so happy, I just can’t tell you. The flight was smooth, the people here are so nice, it’s like I’m supposed to be here. Tim has a couple of new friends, and they all treat me like I was the Queen of England.”

  
“Hmm, your Kit must be pretty important,” said her father, pleased, she could tell. “Your mother will be glad to know you called. She’s in Auckland having the stones your fiancé gave us appraised. Again. Do you know that little bag was full of half a million pounds worth of shiny gravel?”

  
“Daddy,” she said seriously, “that was nothing. Do you think that when you come for the wedding you can bring a case of peaches? Kit loves peaches, but they won’t grow here. And can you buy a very small, child-sized saddle for Tim, and for a pony? There’s a really little girl here who needs a saddle. Nothing here is small enough.”

  
“Donna, with that kind of plane fare,” her father said emphatically, “you can have a peach orchard flown in. I’ll take care of it myself. And don’t worry, I’ll have Anne down at the tack shop help me choose."

  
“Oh, thank you, Daddy,” Donna said, relieved about the saddles. “It’s the only thing he likes that he can’t get here, at least that I’ve found out about, yet. Tell Mummy to wear really light clothing, and lavender would be a good choice of color, or maybe pale mint green.”

  
“I’ll tell her, dear,” her father promised. “Now, you had better get off the line. This must be costing a pretty penny.”

  
“Hah!” said Donna, opening the door and calling her lover back. “You have no idea, Daddy. Kit wanted to have a word with you. I’m going out and work Tim.”

  
“Well, be careful, dear,” said her father, as she handed the handset to the Phantom.

  
“I did?” asked the masked giant, not recalling any such thing. “Oh, yes, I did.”

  
“Bakers can fly them in,” mouthed Donna, leaving.

  
“Trying to manipulate you already, son?” asked the older man with a chuckle. “You get used to it. They mean well, but they just don’t think the same way we do.”

  
“I don’t mind, sir,” he said truthfully. “I should warn you that she made me leave the room for a few minutes, so whatever you were speaking of is probably a secret.”

  
“So I gathered, my boy,” said the far-away New Zealander with a laugh. “Now, what does she think we need to talk about?”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horse stuff, mostly

Donna, meanwhile, was happily carrying her saddle to the paddock, nodding to those who greeted her, and trying out her few words of Bandarese. She really must have a funny accent, for everyone was very amused at her halting words.

  
True to her word, Zarala had everything else that Tim needed waiting on the paddock fence, everything as clean and neat as if for a show. The saddle had been oiled and was in good shape, considering its age. The little girl herself was sitting on the fence with Tim’s head next to her, almost as if they hadn’t moved since Donna had seen them last. Tim lifted his head as he caught sight of her and gave a ringing neigh of welcome, obviously remembering her clothes from earlier.

  
“Hello, Zarala,” said Donna, hanging the old saddle on a lower fence rail. “Did you clean my saddle for me?”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” said the girl with some pride, “and all the rest, too. Chief Guran said not to make it shiny, though.”

  
“Well, if it’s shiny, it’s also slick,” Donna told her, showing her the saddle’s suede knee rolls. “And if you sit on it, it’s easy to fall off of. Some people go so far as to put suede all over their saddle, mostly polo players.”

  
“But oil is good for it?” she asked, puzzled, trying to understand the contradictions.

  
“Oil soaks into the leather, filling little holes so that water can’t get in, and keeping it from cracking. It’s a trade-off, but it works. You never oil the suede, here, see, because that’s part of the grip you have on your horse, with your knees.”

  
“Alright,” agreed the pygmy girl. “That’s okay, then?”

  
“Oh, yes,” Donna said reassuringly. “I’d have done the same myself. And the rest of it looks good enough to show in.”

  
“Good,” said Zarala in satisfaction. “I wanted it to be good for Tim.”

  
“Then let’s get Tim ready,” suggested Donna. “Why don’t you tell him to lay down, then you can help me.”

  
“Will he do it for me?” she asked, uncertain. “Hero only obeys the Phantom.”

  
“Tim’s not so picky,” Donna told her, taking the brush basket through the three-rail fence with her. “He’d do what I said, rather than what someone else says, if there was a conflict, but mostly, he just wants you to be happy, if he likes you. And he likes you, I can tell.”

  
“Tim, lie down,” piped Zarala, and hopped up and down with delight when he obeyed. “How do you know he likes me?”

  
“He’s still around, letting you pet him,” Donna explained, handing the tiny girl a brush. “If he didn’t like you, he’d have left as soon as he found out you hadn’t any treats. We’ll brush him off here, then we’ll get him up and do his other parts, right?”

  
“Right,” agreed the little girl, concentrating on the horse, brushing carefully, making certain that every hair on her half of the big gelding was clean. Her hands just barely fit the brush she held, designed for someone larger. Donna added small grooming tools to her wish list. Tim rubbed his nose on her new clothes experimentally.

  
“Tim, don’t slobber,” she warned, rubbing his eye ridge. “That’s something you need to be careful of, Zarala. He likes to rub his head on you when he’s itchy. People make good, soft scrubbies, or so he thinks. Only people he likes, of course, but still, you might get knocked down if he tries. Just tell him ‘no,’ firmly, and he won’t, but he’ll try to make you feel guilty. Don’t believe him. The grass hereabouts will work perfectly well for that.”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” agreed the girl, intent on her task. She had to stand between Tim’s folded legs to get his back. “Does he do it to you?”

  
“Sometimes I let him,” Donna admitted. “It’s supposed to be bad manners in a horse, but I let him sometimes. Once or twice he has knocked me down when I wasn’t expecting it, and I’m a lot bigger than you.”

  
“I’ll be careful,” promised the girl, her red-and-yellow sarong tied just so. “What will you do with him today?”

  
“I thought we’d go for a little ride around the valley, if you’ll come with me,” Donna told her, looking over at Zarala’s side of Tim. “I’ve been warned about some plants, _shula_ vines and _talla_ weeds, but I don’t know what they look like.”

  
“Oh, I’ll show you,” promised the little girl, excited. “Will we go fast?”

  
“It depends on if there is a good long stretch of ground that’s safe,” Donna told her, approving of Zarala’s technique. “Get back a little, Zarala, and tell him to get up.”

  
“Tim, up, get up!” piped the girl, thrilled to be able to command a creature so much bigger than herself.

  
“Tim, stand,” Donna ordered, and began to brush off the belly and legs that had been out of reach before. “You have to say his name first, to get his attention, then tell him what he should do. Just like people, only a horse does what you tell him more often.”

  
“That’s funny,” laughed Zarala. “Mostly because it’s true. Maybe that’s why I like horses so much.”

  
“No, I know why,” Donna told her, putting down the brush and fishing for a hoof pick. “You’re a horse person, just like me. Let me tell you about yourself. You think about horses most of the time, you talk about horses to your friends and family and they get a sort of blank look on their faces. You draw horses, but no matter how good, it’s never quite perfect. You read about horses, and your highest ambition is to have one of your own, no matter what kind. Am I right?”

  
Zarala stared at her in awe. “How do you know, Lady Donna? Are you a witch?”

  
“No, dear, I’m a horse person, too,” Donna told her, tapping Tim’s leg to make him pick it up for her. “You’re not strange, Zarala, it’s everyone else. We horse people are generally happier, more stable, smarter about some things, and more capable than other folk. There’s more of us than you think, too. As long as we have a horse, even if we can’t ride it, we’re happy. But other people don’t understand us.”

  
“Oh, yes,” exclaimed the tiny brown girl. “That’s how it is, Lady Donna. But if you were like that when you were young, I won’t worry anymore. I was beginning to think there was something wrong with me.”

  
“Zarala, there’s nothing wrong with us,” Donna told her helper seriously, as she picked soil out of Tim’s feet. “We learn to put others before ourselves, to think before we act, to take care of our possessions, and to respect others. Lots of normal people never learn those things, especially at a young age. We also have someone to love, a way to measure ourselves that other people don’t. I’m often rather sorry for the people without our obsession."

  
“You think horse people are better than other people?” asked Zarala, wondering at this philosophy. No one had ever said these things to her, but no one else here was a ‘horse person.’

  
“Well, yes,” Donna told her, finishing Tim’s feet. “Of course, that’s something we can’t tell them, because they’d never understand, and because it wouldn’t be very nice, either.”

  
Zarala savored the fact that her new idol thought her better than some people because of her fixation. She resolved to be the best horse person she could be, determined not to disappoint Donna.

  
The New Zealander saddled Tim, showing Zarala all the idiosyncrasies of his tack, how it should fit and what to watch for. Then she bridled him, with his willing cooperation.

  
“For just hacking around, Zarala, you don’t really need a bridle for Tim,” Donna told her student. “He’s quite good in a halter, but that got left behind at the airport. He’ll help you put his bridle on, though, which many horses won’t do. An awful lot of horses don’t have his sweet nature.”

  
“You mean I could maybe put his bridle on?” said the girl, amazed. “But he’s so tall, how would he know I’m here?”

  
“You say his name and he’ll look,” Donna told her, checking everything over. “He’ll hope for a treat, but if you have good hands, he won’t mind helping you rig him up. Are you ready?”

  
“Oh, yes, yes!” she cried eagerly. “But how do I get on? I mean, do you get on first, or do I? Oh, how I wish that I was taller, like you.”

  
“You get on the top fence rail, Zarala,” Donna suggested. “And do you know, I used to wish I was smaller. I always wanted to be a jockey, and I’m far too tall.”

  
Mounting the patient gelding easily, even in her unfamiliar clothing, Donna legged him over to the railing. Even the tiny girl could get on from that position, her pixie body fitting easily on the large old saddle, just in front of Donna. Zarala sat up proudly, hands on the leather pommel.

  
“It doesn’t take size and strength to work with horses,” Donna told her, letting Tim walk around the pasture, but staying clear of Hero. “You can either force them, or you can talk them into things. I’d rather get a horse to do things without force, because you end up with a happier horse. There are bad horses, I admit, but usually humans made them that way. A good horse can go bad with bad handling, because not all people who work with horses are real horse people.”

  
“How do you know the difference?” asked Zarala, her legs spread wide on the saddle, a position Donna would not have cared to try, at least on a horse. They came to the gate, a simple loop of rope closing it. Tim cooperated as Donna opened the gate, walked him through, then closed it.

  
“By how they act,” Donna told her. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell, but you’ll know eventually. They tend to force their horses when they don’t need to, or treat them poorly when they don’t have to.”

  
“I’d never do that,” vowed Zarala, hoping that people saw her, riding with the Phantom’s bride. The world was different from this height, she could see farther, felt more adult, somehow. She liked it, but the sensation of speed just at a walk thrilled her. “He’s so fast, Lady Donna. Are we still walking?”

  
“Yes, it only seems fast because his legs are so much longer than ours,” Donna told her. “We’ll walk a little first, so that he can get warmed up. It won’t take long here, because it’s so hot, but where I’m from, the rule is walk a mile before you trot, then trot a mile before you canter. But when you get to know your horse, you can tell how long it’ll take. You have to stretch out muscles so that they won’t strain things.”

  
“Like people,” said Zarala, nodding, feeling Tim go down a slope to a shallow ditch and then up. “Do you want to see _talla_ weeds? That’s them, over there, the thick, fuzzy green ones. They itch when you touch them. Tiny spines on all the leaves and stalks, like hooks for your skin.”

  
Donna rode Tim close and stopped to get a good look. The weeds looked harmless, even soft, and she resolved to avoid their trap. They continued on, Zarala telling her what plants were called, what they were good for, and Donna trying to remember. Donna warned her passenger that they were going to trot, just enough to stretch Tim, and to check the ground.

  
“It’ll be hard to sit, Zarala,” but I’ll hold onto you,” she promised. “I won’t let you fall, no matter how much you think you will.”

  
Zarala nodded nervously, but trusted Donna to keep her word. After all, the Phantom wouldn’t marry someone who didn’t keep her promises. After the first few scary moments, rough for someone not used to the gait, the girl began to get the hang of it, needing Donna’s grasp less and less. Still, it was nice that Lady Donna was watching out for her, and keeping her arm around her.

  
As she got the rhythm of the bay’s gait down to a movement she understood, Zarala had time to see how fast they were going. Why, they were almost to the trees at the west end of the valley, she thought in surprise. And still flying toward them with the speed of a bird in flight. Then Donna, with care for her friend, pulled Tim up.

  
“You catch on quick,” she told the girl in admiration. “Trotting is the hardest gait to learn. Did you like it?”

  
“Oh, yes,” said the brown-skinned pixie. “It was so fast, Lady Donna. I’ve never gone so fast in my life.”

  
“Records like that are made to be broken, my friend,” declared Donna, turning Tim back toward the village, the way they had come. “Now, we go a little faster, since the ground looked good on the way here. This gait is easy, but very fast. I’ll still hang onto you, but you won’t feel off balance like the trot. Are you ready?”

  
“Yes, yes,” caroled the girl, winding her hands into Tim’s mane. Donna shortened her grip on the reins and legged Tim into a perfect canter depart. The big bay had a smooth, easy canter, and Zarala felt the wind in her hair, the speed of their pace and laughed aloud at the sheer joy of it.

  
“Now we come to that ditch, Zarala,” Donna said in a loud voice. “Hold on!”

  
To Zarala’s terrified delight, the gelding leapt the wide ditch as if he had wings, landing easily, and halting smoothly.

  
“Pat his neck, Zarala,” Donna told her, doing so herself. “You should always tell a horse he’s done well by patting him. It’s like saying ‘thank you’ to a person.”

  
“Oh, thank you Tim,” she said, hugging the neck beneath her. “That was like magic, like flying! Lady Donna, is that what it’s like for the Ghost Who Walks when he rides Hero?”

  
“Oh, no, Hero is much faster than Tim,” Donna denied. “And we weren’t going fast, it only seemed that way because you’ve never done it before. Tell you what, where’s a good place to get a drink from? I’m supposed to drink lots of water, or I’ll fall down. Can’t take the heat and humidity, you know. Is there a place we might show off a bit to your friends, just by accident?”

  
“Yes,” said Zarala, delighted. “By the village well, over there, many of my friends play and work. The water is good, too, and Tim can walk there without trouble.”

  
“Good. You point the way, and watch my hands. You should know how to hold the reins, since tomorrow, we’ll start teaching you to ride.”

  
“Me?” squealed Zarala, her heart’s desire at hand. “Oh, Lady Donna, you will teach me to ride? To ride Tim?”

  
“Of course,” said Donna, hugging her. “He’s good, you’ll see. I’ve had several children back home ride him. It might be hard on your legs, though. He’s really a bit too big for you.”

  
“I don’t care,” declared Zarala, burying her face in the black mane. “I’ll learn. I’ll grow. I’ll take care of him and all your tack, and anything else you want done, Lady Donna. You’ll see.”

  
“Well, you could help me learn Bandarese,” suggested Donna, nodding politely to the many people they passed. “I must have a very funny accent, everyone smiles and laughs when I try to say anything.”

  
“They’re just happy that you’re trying to learn so soon,” Zarala assured her loyally. “There’s the well. Should I get down?”

  
“Are your friends there?” whispered Donna, remembering her own youth. At the girl’s nod, she added, “Then, no. You stay up here, while they’re down there. Let them envy you just a little, right?”

  
“Right!” said the tiny girl, imitating her idol. “There’s my mother, and Danila, and my sister, Moki.”

  
“You just play it cool,” advised Donna. “Like you’ve ridden all your life, and do this every day. Don’t worry about them noticing, they’ve already seen you.”

  
At the well, a respectful distance from it, Donna dismounted and asked Zarala what she should do about a drink. Gravely, the tiny figure informed her that there was a big wooden gourd at the end of the rope, and a cup by the well to use for drinking. Donna thanked her friend and with nods and polite greetings, made her way to the well. After drinking several cups of water, Donna replaced the items and returned to Tim, whose reins Zarala held. Donna remounted with some grace, and they walked off toward the paddock. Only after they had got clear of the village did they burst out laughing together.

  
“Hah!” said Donna as they again went through the gate. “That’ll show your mother, eh?”

  
“You made it seem like I was telling you what to do,” giggled Zarala. “Oh, I thought my cousin’s eyes would pop out. And my sister couldn’t shut her mouth.”

  
“I want everyone to know that you’re my friend, Zarala,” Donna told her, halting Tim in the shade. Hero ambled over to watch. “We horse women have to stick together.”

  
“Yeah,” agreed Zarala, proud enough to burst. “Together.”

  
“After all,” Donna added, dismounting easily, “who else is there to talk horse with?”

  
“Right,” said Zarala, blithely dropping to the ground from three times her own height. “I know it’s selfish, but I wish you didn’t spend so much time with him. I know you’re in love, but he already knows how to ride.”

  
“Oh, Zarala,” laughed Donna, touched by the girl’s honest desire. Blunt honesty was ever a trait she admired. “In a few days, Kit’s going to Mawitaan to see the President. He’ll be gone for four days, probably five. You need to help me with the wedding, too. I haven’t even been to the beach, yet. Can we ride there, do you think?”

  
“Five days?” asked Zarala, the look of anticipation bright on her face. “You could get up early and ride before it gets hot. And I know where to find water bottles, so we needn’t go to water holes. And I’m very good with my bow, so we’d be safe.”

  
“Oh, yes, I’d almost forgotten the wild animals,” Donna said. “The biggest threat in New Zealand is wild dogs, you know, although we somehow managed to find a werewolf on our way north.”

  
“Keelawee is near Oogaan and Mori,” Zarala told her, turning the damp saddle pad upside-down to dry. “Not too many dangerous animals. You just need to be careful.”

  
“Another reason to have you with me,” said Donna, while Tim rolled in the grass. “But I’d better ask Kit, to make sure, and you’ve got to ask your mother. I just got here, I don’t want anyone mad at me yet.”

  
“Lady Donna,” protested Zarala, “no one will be angry with you. You don’t know any better, and you’re his wife, almost. I could get myself in trouble easily, because I do know the area, and what should and shouldn’t be done.”

  
“And I should probably practice my weapons, too,” said Donna thoughtfully. “I still don’t know how to throw a spear. Kit promised to help me practice my swordwork. Do you think I should learn to use a gun? I’ve never used one before.”

  
“You should ask him,” advised Zarala. “Every Bandar knows how to use a bow, many use spears, but we use poisons, too, so that’s all we need. Even someone my size is dangerous to others, and usually animals around here avoid us, and people, too.”

  
“Well, I’m pretty good from horseback with a lance or a sword, and I’m good with a sword on the ground, but I don’t have any distance weapon, you see. I guess I’d better get some practice spears and start.”  
Donna put all the brushes back into the basket, after smoothing out the damp saddle mark on Tim’s back. Zarala watched her closely, memorizing every movement.

  
“Do you think I could watch you practice?” asked the tiny girl, shy suddenly. “Maybe I could learn that, too.”

  
“Oh, Zarala, I don’t mind if you watch,” Donna told her, flattered. “But, remember, you have to know what you can and can’t do. Knife work might be more your kind of thing. I can’t do that very well, I’m too big a target.”

  
“But you have a longer reach,” pointed out the girl, gathering up the bridle and girth, careful to let nothing touch the ground. “I’d have to be really fast to be better with a knife.”

  
“That’s what women do, Zarala,” Donna told her, resting the saddle on her shoulder and picking up the basket. “And small women just have to be even faster and sneakier than us big women. Remember, just because you’re small, doesn’t mean you’re stupid or weak. I bet, when you’re older, you’d be a really good jockey, and jockeys are the fittest, most fearless athletes in the world.”

  
“You wanted to be one,” said Zarala, remembering. “Why?"

  
“Can you think of a better way to live than riding horses fast every day?” Donna asked her, walking back toward the Cave. “But I was too tall by the time I was fourteen, so I was competing on the jumping circuit when I met Kit.”

  
“Could you tell me about that sometime?” asked Zarala, trying to extend her stride to match Donna’s.

  
“The show jumping circuit, or meeting Kit?” asked Donna, slowing a little.

  
“Uh, both, but I meant the jumping,” admitted the girl. “All the books make it look like fun, and it was!”

  
“Well, I’m sure we’ll get to talk about it,” Donna assured her. “It’s nowhere near as exciting as meeting him has been, though, at least after I’d done it awhile.”

  
“Does Tim jump well?” she asked, carefully hanging up the bridle and girth. “He feels like it, but I’ve never done it before, so I don’t know. I’d like to learn how.”

  
“You need a helmet first,” Donna told her, putting the saddle down on the rack. “No one should jump without a helmet, or really learn to ride without one. But I don’t have one that will fit you, so we’ll teach you flat work first. Maybe, if I can talk to my parents again, I can get them to bring you a helmet, too.”

  
“They’ll have enough to think about without doing that, too,” protested Zarala, overwhelmed. “I can wait. Just learning how to ride is more than I ever expected to do only a few days ago. I can be patient, you’ll see.”

  
“I can already see that,” Donna told her, hugging her. “Now, I have a few questions about how things work around here. Maybe you can help me with them?”

  
“If I can,” agreed the tiny girl, intently focused on the tall woman’s face.

  
“Good. First, if I want to cook dinner, how do I do it, and where?” Donna asked, sitting on one of the stone benches. “Do I have to hunt and kill something if I want meat? Are there pots and pans and plates I could use? Does everyone eat as a group, or does the Phantom, and his family, eat separately from the tribe?”

  
“If my mother wants meat,” Zarala said slowly, thinking, “she has my father get some. But you only have to ask, I think, and someone will get it for you. There is a place in the cliff face that a Phantom built long ago, where he or his wife cooks and stores food. I do not know if there is food there now, but anyone in the village will be glad to give you food to cook. Often, I think, the Ghost Who Walks ate with the tribe because he was lonely. Now, he isn’t lonely any more. And neither am I.”

  
“I’m glad, Zarala,” Donna told her, picking her up and holding her on her lap. “I know how it can be for people like us. Now, you should go and have dinner, I’m sure, but could you help me find this cooking place, first?”

  
Donna and her small admirer were firing up the propane grill when the Phantom found them. On a small tray were fruits and several vegetables, resting on a stone shelf, part of the wall of the tiny cave. A barbecue pit was built of native rock outside the cliff, but Donna ignored it, as she had no wood or charcoal. The stove and grill, however, were under the cliff face, just inside the cave. A wide, high bubble in the stone had allowed a very nice dining room and kitchen to be built, as well as a vermin proof pantry and cupboards.

  
Donna had cooked with propane before, and was pleased to find many full propane canisters, as well as pots, pans and dishes, as she had wanted. All neatly stored in the dry, cool cave. Zarala had simply walked out into the overgrown cliff greenery and come back with the fruit and yams. An airtight canister had provided rice, currently soaking in a pot of water, ready to cook. A tiny streamlet provided water to a basin smoothed into the rock, which Donna recognized as a sort of sink. All the place needed was a refrigerator, she thought, and it would be just like home, or better.

  
“Donna, what are you and Zarala up to?” he asked, leaning on the table to watch them. It was a heavy, plain, but functional table, made of native wood, with matching benches and chairs scattered around the big stone bubble. “I thought you’d both still be with Tim.”

  
“You asked me if I could cook, once,” said Donna, watching to make sure the propane was burning correctly. “Now you get to see. Zarala says Chief Guran is going to send us a couple of pieces of meat, so I’m going to try to make us dinner. By the way, I love this kitchen. Who made it?”

  
“My grandfather put in the sink,” he told her, watching the two women work, flattered at Donna’s willingness to care for him. “My father put in the stove. The barbecue pit was long before that, I think. But my mother designed the cabinetry, and my father put it in. I’m not sure who made the furniture, it’s very old.”

  
“Old just means well-built, if it’s still around,” she said, scraping the grill with a metal fork. “I like well-built, myself. When I build things, they may not be pretty, but they last. Do you have a preference as to how you like your meat done?”

  
“Not really,” he told her, admiring her back and shoulders, since she had taken off the gauzy blouse. “And I have a wide tolerance for food types. Are you staying for dinner, Zarala?”

  
“No, O Ghost Who Walks,” said Zarala respectfully. “I’m to go home for dinner soon. And after I need to clean Tim’s tack. But Lady Donna asked me to help her.”

  
“I think I’ve got it now,” Donna told her tiny helper. “Tell your mother I said you were a big help, Zarala, and I’d like to have you help me tomorrow, too. You might need to tell her I’m a city-type, see, not used to finding my own food, yet. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

  
“Right!” affirmed the girl proudly, and dashed off with a wave. Her family and friends would be impressed, she knew, and held herself more erect than before. The Phantom knew her name and had spoken to her, and his wife-to-be was her new best friend. And she had ridden a horse, a real horse, fast as the wind, without falling off, or even being very afraid. She had a new feeling of self-worth, of purpose, although she didn’t realize it. The Phantom saw it, though, and recognized that his wife had become Zarala’s personal god. Nothing would be too much for Donna to ask, if Zarala learned of her desire.

  
“You had best be careful, my lady,” the Phantom warned his lover as she set the rice and yams to boil. “Zarala is small and young, but has the heart of a lion. She’ll do anything for you, including put her life in trade for yours. I’ve seen it before. Be cautious what you say to her. She’s sure you can walk on water without wetting your feet.”

  
“Oh, she knows better than that, dear,” Donna told him, grinning at his phrasing. “I still can’t find vegetables without help. But she is fearless. Do you know she rode with me and Tim over a ditch today and never turned a hair. Tomorrow she starts riding Tim by herself. She says she knows the way to the beach from here, and can use a bow if she needs to. Do you think we might go there while you’re gone, or shall we wait? We can find plenty to do while you’re gone, if you prefer.”

  
“The thought of you out there in the jungle alone, except for Zarala and Tim,” the Phantom added hastily, “scares me to death, Donna. Please, don’t do that without me, please. Promise me that you’ll take ten or twelve Bandar warriors if you even go out of sight of the valley. It’s not that I don’t think you’ll survive, but the jungle is a harsh teacher, and I don’t want you, or Tim, or Zarala, hurt.”

  
“Alright, lover,” she agreed, impressed by his emphatic tone. “I promise not to go to the beach without you. I just wanted to know more about the place before the ceremony, for planning purposes. You know, where to stand, where to seat guests, where to have the reception, where to cook the food, that sort of thing.”

  
“All well in hand, according to Guran,” he told her, somewhat relieved. As if summoned by his name, that worthy appeared out of the growing twilight with two large cuts of meat in banana leaves.  
“As you asked, Lady Donna,” the small man said with a bow, his eyes atwinkle beneath the hat of his office. “Antelope steaks. The rest will feed three families tonight. Eat well, O Ghost Who Walks, and may you both sleep well.”

  
“Oh, my,” Donna sighed, partly dismayed, partly amused. “I’d forgotten about the rest of the beast. I must remember to waste not. And to learn to do my own hunting.”

  
“You don’t need to, dear,” he told her, again unnerved at the thought of her in the jungle stalking game, and perhaps being stalked herself. “Either Devil or Guran or I will bring you meat, if you need it.”

  
“Now, Kit,” she told him, putting the steaks on the grill. “I need to learn to either shoot or use my spear to hunt with. I don’t care if you men want to do all that stuff, I just think that I ought to know how. And Zarala wants to watch our saber match. Want to put it on public display?”

  
“Tomorrow night?” he suggested, knowing that the whole tribe would be there to see such a thing. He watched her add several ingredients to the boiling rice pot, and tend to the sizzling meat. “Everyone will want to watch, you know.”

  
“It’s not a blood match, Kit,” Donna told him, setting the table, one eye on the meat. “But I’d like to wear something a little more protective than this. What are the chances of finding my jeans before then?”

  
“All you have to do is mention that you’ll need them,” he told her, filling two cups with water from the ‘tap.’ “I suspect that they’ve been taken apart for a pattern, or you’d probably have found them this morning.”

  
“Oh, I hope they use a lighter material than denim,” Donna exclaimed, remembering both how hot the pants had been, and how difficult such stuff was to sew, especially by hand. “They’re all being so nice, Kit, I really want to do something in return, but I don’t know what, yet.”

  
“Keeping Zarala occupied is enough where Jula is concerned,” the Phantom told her, setting the fruit on the table. “You’ll think of something later, don’t worry.”

  
“Alright, lover,” she agreed, turning the steaks. “What did you do this afternoon, while I was showing off Tim?”

  
“Invited people to the wedding,” he said, sitting down where he could watch her against the lantern’s light. Set near the entry of the cavern, it kept the bugs away from the dining table, mostly. “Arranged for invitations to be sent to others. Ordered a lot more cloth and such, wrote up the Firebugs in the Chronicles, that kind of thing. The Mori will pick up the cloth in Mawitaan and bring it most of the way to the Deep Woods, by boat. They’re great fishermen and sailors, and I think the Chief is a bit upset with me that I didn’t stop by on the way here. The Oogaan, as well. Prince Obiju is a good friend, and he feels a bit snubbed, as the Llongo and Wambesi got to look you over, and he didn’t.”

  
“Why is there a prince of the Oogaan, and everyone else is a Chief?” asked Donna, cutting the meat to check the insides. It wasn’t done enough to satisfy her. She looked at the vegetables and added a few more things.

  
“All the heirs of chiefs are called princes, but Prince Obiju has more responsibility than most, since his father is rather crippled. Sometimes badly enough that he can’t do any of the things he needs to do to lead, so Obiju is kind of doing the job now. He’s an athletic sort of fellow, competes in the Jungle Olympics every year. Usually does quite well.”

  
“You have an Olympic Games here?” she asked, turning to stare at him. “Every year?”

  
“One of my ancestors started it, to kind of shift the hostilities of the various tribes to a more peaceful pursuit. It worked, sort of. Much less actual warfare, but competition is almost as fierce,” he told her.

  
“Does anyone here ever go to the world Olympics?” she asked, a strange note in her voice. He decided that she was trying not to laugh.

  
“Quite often, really,” he said, proud of his friends. “The marathon, races, usually, javelin and highjump, long jump, pole vault and shot put. Mostly track and field stuff. Wrestling and judo, often, but not always. The Mori have sent swimmers, but no equestrian teams, no cycling or yachting or gymnastics.”

  
“That sounds like fun,” she said wistfully. “Do you think we could go watch sometime?”

  
“Certainly, if you want to, Donna,” he said sniffing the smells of cooking appreciatively. “The Bandar never compete, but they don’t mind watching. If I’m busy, you could go with them.”

  
“I just might do that,” she said thoughtfully, taking the food off of the stove and grill and serving it. “I’ve always wanted to go to the Games.”

  
“I could get you tickets to the world Olympics, if you’d like,” he offered, standing until she had taken her seat. “I’m sure you and Zarala would have a wonderful time at the equestrian events.”

  
“I’ll think about it,” she promised. “Now, you can tell me whether or not I can cook.”

  
Much later, in bed, she had a last thought as she drifted off in his arms. It was a vision of herself and Tim on the Three-day course, before an international crowd. She fell asleep dreaming of a gold medal around her neck.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Local boundaries and saber match

The next morning, early, Donna awoke alone. The bed where her lover had slept was still warm, but he was gone. Sighing at how quickly she had come to expect him to be hers, she rose and padded to the bathing room, hoping to find him there. He had been there, but no longer. She took a brief bath, wetting her hair, and went back to their bedroom. Again, it had been tidied, although she hadn’t lingered, and a pile of clothing sat on the bed.

  
Surprised, she found multiple copies of her T-shirt, socks, underwear and jeans, although in lighter cloth, and with subtle variations in style. She tried on several and was delighted at the fit, choosing some cotton slacks, in gray, socks of white cotton, a bright red-and-yellow halter top for a bra, and a light blue shirt of thin cotton to go over it. She put on her paddock boots and raced down the passage to the main entryway. Her saddle and tack were gone, but so were his, and she began to be just a little worried.

  
At the paddock, Hero stood saddled and bridled, her beloved next to him, watching Zarala brush Tim, who lay on the damp grass obediently. The tiny girl wore a miniature version of Donna’s jeans and shirt, even shoes of a sort, colored in tones of brown. As she got closer, Zarala stepped back and Tim arose, being careful of his tiny groom. The Phantom gave the bay a quick brush off of his legs and belly, as Zarala struggled to clean out the carefully raised hooves that Tim picked up at her signals.

  
“Would you two have come to get me, or just gone off on your own?” asked Donna cheerfully, saddle and pad in hand. She set the pad on the broad back and settled the old saddle on it with the expertise of long practice. Zarala handed her the girth and set out to bridle the horse herself. Doing as Donna had told her to, the pygmy girl managed to get the bit in, but was having difficulty with the patient beast’s right ear. Donna scooped the ear out with an expert motion, and fastened the cheek strap.

  
“He’s not earshy, Zarala,” she told the girl, patting the still-lowered neck. “Some you can’t depend on for that, but Tim doesn’t mind. Do you have a treat? He’s watching you rather closely.”

  
“I had a piece of bread,” Zarala said, cautiously. “He liked it. Was that alright?”

  
“Ah, one of his favorite things,” laughed Donna. “Don’t give him much, but a little is fine. Now he’ll want me to have something for him. Sorry, boy, not this morning. I haven’t eaten myself.”

  
“Get mounted,” suggested the Phantom, having watched the two with amusement. “I’ll take you out to breakfast. You, too, Zarala.”

  
Donna tossed the girl up to Tim’s neck, then mounted her friendly gelding. Her lover mounted with that beautiful twist of his body, and led out the open gate, heading south along the cliff face. Donna let the girl hold Tim’s reins, reinforcing her light touch with leg and voice. The big gelding wanted to follow the stallion, and few directions were needed.

  
Soon, they came to a large grove of trees, not far into the jungle, almost an orchard. There were bananas, papayas, mangos and others Donna didn’t know. This was a well-tended area, the ground showing evidence of foot traffic, probably the Bandar tribe's fruit stand, the New Zealander realized. The Phantom easily picked fruit from the heavily laden branches, passing it to the girls, who ate happily. Donna ate almost an entire bunch of bananas by herself. Kit laughed at her, even as Hero ate a papaya from his hand, neck curved like a bow to reach him.

  
“You like peaches and can’t get ‘em,” she told her fiancé. “I like bananas and didn’t get as many as I liked very often. I might get tired of them, eventually, but I doubt it.”

  
“Muzi says bananas are good for cramps,” Zarala volunteered, her own face smeared with mango juice, but not one drop on the saddle or the gelding. “To stop them, or prevent them, not to cause them, I mean.”

  
“Well, that’ll be useful in a day or so,” remarked Donna. “I know what I want for breakfast from now on. Here, Tim, you can have the mango.”

  
“Now that you’re ready to face the day,” said the Phantom, smiling at them both, tiny brown girl and his tall amazon, faces smeared and content with their sweet breakfasts. “I thought I’d better show you where you can go, besides the valley. Zarala knows all these places, but I want you to know, too. Big cats and other dangerous creatures avoid these places, usually, since they are essentially the Bandar back yard. Nevertheless, don’t be careless, that can kill you.”

  
“Yes, Kit,” said Donna, knowing how he worried. “And Zarala, remember, I’m stupid about the jungle. You have to teach me everything, like I was a baby. It’ll be like babysitting a two-year-old, I’ll be so much trouble, even in the safe places. Can you put up with me?”

  
“Lady Donna,” protested the girl indignantly, “you’re not stupid! Just, uh, ignorant. And you won’t be _that_ much trouble.”

  
The man in purple and black laughed heartily at the girl’s correction, and at Donna’s expression.

  
“Stupid or ignorant, both can get you killed,” shrugged Donna with a laugh of her own. “What’s this place called?”

  
“The orchard,” Zarala said, tossing aside a peel. “A Phantom planted it before my people learned how to grow things like trees.”

  
“Come on, I’ll show you the fields where the rice grows,” he said, turning Hero. That morning they saw the cliff top, reached by a narrow, switchback trail, a smaller village to the south, which appeared to be mostly pygmy folk, but where all the taller people lived as well. Here was where Dr. Dorn lived and worked, as did the two teachers, and a tall, lame storyteller, Old Man Moze. Everyone knew them, as all had been at Donna’s welcome feast. They saw the fields of rice and taro, a small plot of experimental crops, and the cotton fields where some of the cloth came from. The Bandar grew enough to feed and clothe themselves, but did not trade or export to other tribes, reinforcing the unease which was felt when a larger native saw them. Fear and a healthy dose of mystery were as much the pygmy’s allies as the Phantom’s.

  
The valley and the second village, which seemed to have no more name than the first one, were hers to explore. After hearing some of the things that had happened even close to the Skull Cave, Donna agreed that she would not go elsewhere without experts. She would be very embarrassed if she had to be rescued from some beast or trap before her wedding. Worse if she got herself injured or sick. Her lover appreciated her sexual appetite even more, seeing how it kept her from her normal fearless, and dangerous, courses of action.

  
They returned to the Cave before the heat of the day came on fully, and Donna promised the afternoon to Zarala’s riding lesson, as Tim had not tired from their brief, slow tour. She also suggested that the tiny girl tell everyone that she and her lover were going to have a practice match on the lawn at dinner, if anyone cared to watch.

  
“Oh, Lady Donna,” laughed Zarala, “no one will miss that! You mean with swords, right?”

  
“Yes, with swords, you silly girl,” laughed Donna, hugging her friend. “Did you think I could take him on barehanded? Leave the tack here, Zarala. We’ll just have to bring it down again, otherwise.”

  
“You’ve been taking me on barehanded since we met,” said the Phantom, as the tiny girl scampered off to tell everyone the news. “But I’d rather not have you do that in front of the entire tribe, dear. I’d much rather do it in private, and without an audience. After all, I work better in the dark, shadows are the element of ghosts.”

  
“Well, then let’s go mess up the bedroom, o Ghost Who Walks,” suggested Donna, taking his hand with a grin. “I’m feeling rather deprived and overheated. And I’m always really enthusiastic just before my phase of the moon. It’s like I have to make up for what I’m going to miss.”

  
Later, as they straightened up the bed and walked to the bath together, he kissed her, astonished by his happiness and her own.

  
“You just want to tire me out for our match this evening,” he told her, as they slid into the warm water. “And I think it might work, if we try now. But I’ll be fully recovered by this evening, you know.”

  
“I can attest that you have wonderful powers of recovery,” she purred, stroking him intimately. “But I won’t try to wear you out until we go to bed tonight. I hope you don’t plan on an early start tomorrow.”

  
“Darling wanton,” he said, kissing her splashily. “Go teach Zarala how to ride and leave me to recover my strength. I’ve got some work to do before our dinner match.”

  
When Donna got to the paddock, a piece of sweet potato in her hand for Tim, she found Zarala laying across the broad back, murmuring to him and scratching his itchy spot while he lay in the shade.

  
“Ah, it’s almost a shame to break up this little scene,” Donna said, laughing. “I can see you’ve got those two tricks figured out pretty well. Do you know ‘Tim, roll over?’”

  
The big bay looked at her reproachfully and failed to respond, nosing the tiny girl on his back. Zarala slid off and backed over to Donna. Tim watched her and then rolled to his other side, pausing to sigh blissfully at full length on the grass.

  
“Hah, see, I told you he likes you, Zarala,” Donna said, whistling to the horse. “Come, Tim. Good boy.”

  
“He didn’t roll over until I got off,” said Zarala, amazed. “He’s a really smart horse, isn’t he?”

  
“Pretty smart, but mostly willing,” said Donna proudly, feeding the sweet potato to the horse. Hero was galloping around the lower meadow, apparently doing his exercises. “So don’t you worry about falling off, right? He probably won’t let you.”

  
“Right,” said Zarala, who had been talking to Tim about that very thing. “How do we start? I mean, do I learn to get on first, or ride first?”

  
“Well, first we bridle the beast, then we see if you’re more comfortable bareback or with the saddle,” Donna told her. “I’m afraid you really need either a racing saddle or a specially made one, since people your size seldom ride horses Tim’s size. That doesn’t mean you can’t, only that it might be a bit bothersome at first.”

  
“How do you make a saddle?” asked Zarala, watching the bridle go on with great attention. “It’s leather, but what else?”

  
“Most saddles have ‘trees’ of wood, a sort of frame inside them,” Donna told her, setting her easily on Tim’s bare back. “It’s mostly to keep the weight of the rider from pressing too hard on the horse’s back in the wrong places. A racing saddle doesn’t have one, usually, and is very small and light, so that might be what we need.”

  
Zarala, legs wide on the silken back, took the reins in hands eager to hold them again. Over and over, she had read about how important ‘good hands’ were to a rider, and wondered how good hers were.

  
“Walk him around a little and see if you feel secure enough to try this way,” Donna suggested. “Bareback and saddles both have advantages and drawbacks. Bareback develops a good seat, but is not very secure. Saddles will only put more width there, but have the advantage of stirrups.”

  
“I might fall off anyway,” Zarala said, unconcerned. “I’m more worried about my hands than sitting. How do I know if I have good or bad hands?”

  
For an hour, in easy stages, the three worked on Zarala’s hands and seat, lost in their own world, and happy with their obsession. Zarala even managed a loose-reined trot, for a few steps, near the end of the lesson. She had to hold on to the black mane to keep from falling, but it was a triumph of sorts.

  
“Well, that was good, Zarala,” Donna told her, putting her young friend on the ground. “My first time trotting bareback, I fell off. It’s hard, even with a smooth trot like Tim’s.”

  
“Lady Donna,” begged the girl, “show me what you do. I mean, ride Tim like he’s supposed to be ridden, so I can watch and see what you do. Please?”

  
“With or without the saddle?” asked Donna, patting the silken neck. Her horse was not tired, since Zarala weighed nearly nothing, and he had mostly walked.

  
“Either,” said the girl, wondering what Tim could really do. “You told me Tim did anything. Can you jump, or do you need a helmet?”

  
“Oh, Kit says my stuff’s supposed to be here today, so maybe tomorrow we’ll jump,” Donna promised. “But I can show you some of his other skills. He has passable dressage, as long as you’re not an F.E.I. judge. Do you know what dressage is?”

  
“Well, I’ve read it,” admitted Zarala, climbing up to the top rail. “But I don’t understand it. What’s a ‘shoulder in?’ What’s a ‘piaffe?’ What’s a ‘tempe?’”

  
“Don’t worry,” said Donna, vaulting to Tim’s patiently waiting back. “Lots of people who ride don’t know that, either. To someone watching, dressage can be boring, but not to the rider. Watch the circle we make and see how he bends his spine.”

  
After several minutes, Donna demonstrating and explaining various movements, the bay did start to sweat. Zarala watched carefully, wishing she had just longer legs. Even if she looked like a stilt bird, at least she could have signaled Tim properly. The piaffe was perfectly obvious, once it had been demonstrated, and she didn’t mind when Tim missed one of his two-tempe changes, although she noticed it, unlike the Wambesi.

  
A slight commotion attracted their attention, and Donna slid from Tim’s back. Zarala stood up on the top fence bar to see better, and informed the blondish Kiwi that it was a large group of pygmy warriors. They were bringing in the things Donna had left at the airport. Donna took off Tim’s bridle and smoothed out his back hair with a brush. Then the pair went to see what had made it to the Deep Woods, Zarala wildly excited.

  
Piled in the entryway of the Skull Cave, it made an impressive amount, especially all in boxes and crates marked ‘Baker Air Freight,’ and Donna was certain that there hadn’t been this much material in Bernie and the trailer to bring. Then she found out why there was so much other stuff. The route their luggage had taken was similar to their own, first to the Llongo, then the Wambesi, then to the Oogaan, whom they had avoided. At each tribe, where the bearers were traded off, word of whose goods these were got out. Happily, each tribe had added a package or two of their own for Donna, and the bearers took them gladly.

  
Her tack trunk Donna set next to the saddle rack on the wall, as well as the aluminum bucket and brushes Kit had bought her in Wellington. Zarala was fascinated by the contents, which also seemed to have been added to. Another of the clever saddle cloths had been added to her gear, this one of purple and black, as if to match the Phantom, and she put that on his saddle rack. A bundle of plainer bamboo lances had come from the Wambesi, and Donna was delighted at the chance to use them for practice, rather than her beautiful spear.

  
Zarala found Donna’s helmet and boots, and tried on the helmet. It was not so big for her as she had feared, but it was still too large not to move on her head. Perhaps if she padded it with cloth, she thought. The tall boots, much like the Phantom’s, were scuffed and dirty, and those she set out to be cleaned, longing to have legs that would have fit them.

  
The Oogaan, never having met her, had sent more traditionally woman-like articles, a wide, intricately inlaid tray of wood and ivory, several lengths of very fine cloth, and a tiger skin of soft-tanned leather. Donna, typically, wondered what the tiger-skin would look like as a saddle pad on Tim. Very dramatic, she guessed, with his dark color. If she were going to costume Hero, she would choose a black leopard pelt instead, she thought, for the contrast.

  
“Lady Donna,” asked Zarala, finding another, older helmet in the big wooden box. “Why do you have two helmets? Are they different?”

  
“Oh, my goodness,” said Donna, surprised. “I was just wondering what I’d done with that. That’s my old helmet, from when I was just starting to ride. Try it on, it might fit better than the other.”

  
Zarala was a bit embarrassed to know that Donna had seen her trying on the helmet, but found that the older one was almost her size. After all, Lady Donna didn’t seem to mind, and perhaps she would share her hats, as she did her horse.

  
“Well, we can either pad it with something,” said Donna, wobbling it experimentally on the girl’s head, “or you can grow your hair really long. Either way, it’ll work for jumping. The harness is adjustable, and it’s that light brown, not black, so it won’t be quite so hot. That makes me feel ever so much better about you riding Tim, Zarala. One of the first rules of Pony Club is never ride without a helmet.”

  
“I’m to ride with this?” asked Zarala, excitedly. “Can I take it home to clean up?”

  
“It’s yours, Zarala,” Donna told her, patting the old velvet helmet, and the head inside it. “You can do anything you want to with it, but remember to wear it when you ride. Most injuries with horses are head injuries, then foot, then back, as I recall. That’s why we wear helmets and boots.”

  
“It’s going to make my head hot,” noted Zarala, taking it off to examine more closely. “But I’ll wear it every ride, I promise.”

  
“Just remember, I’ll be just as hot-headed as you,” laughed Donna. “And then people will be right when they call me a hot-head!”

  
“Speaking of hot-heads,” said the deep voice of her lover, “didn’t someone want a fencing match this evening?”

  
“You bet, Kit,” Donna agreed, pulling out the same long bundle she’d worn when Tim had tracked the Ripper. “But I won’t be using this. You’ve got much better stuff to play with.”

  
“What is it?” he asked, curiously. “A sword?”

  
“As close as I had at the time,” she said, pulling out a long, wide blade like a straight cutlass. “A machete, usually for chopping weeds, or trails. I have it for cutting grass for Tim.”

  
“Would you have used it?” he asked, knowing the answer as he saw the hilt fit into her hand like an old friend. The tool had the look of hard use, but was sharp-looking, even in the unsteady light of the torches.

  
“If she had killed you, I would have hacked her to pieces,” Donna said, her tone level. She was certain she could use a weapon on such a person, and that she had only spoken the truth. She cased the oiled blade again and set it aside.

  
“I’d better start sorting out what needs to go where,” she said to herself, looking around at the hodge-podge that had cluttered the entry. “Clothes to the bedroom, horse gear to the corner there, at least until I find someplace else. What to do with the presents? Wait until the wedding, Kit, or use them now?”

  
“What presents?” he asked. She showed him and he laughed. “The Oogaan haven’t met you yet, or you’d have got a shield or bow out of them. They’re meant to be used, dear, not displayed.”

  
“Right,” she said, and began separating things into piles. Most was still in boxes, so she had a less disorganized result than she had feared. “Now, I need to get something heavier on, especially if we’re using real swords. My jeans, that sweatshirt, my tennis shoes, my helmet, and something to wrap the blades in so we don’t accidentally cut someone. Me, probably.”

  
“Donna, I’ve no intention of hurting you,” he promised her. “We do have a few practice swords, you know, wooden, with no edges.”

  
“No, I’d rather use steel with padding,” she said, unable to see the worry in Zarala’s eyes behind her. “Otherwise the weight’s wrong. But I don’t want you hurt, either. Not that I think I can take you, but you might overestimate my coordination, or something like that.”

  
“I’ll be careful,” he said, wondering if he could just back away and avoid her the entire match. Somehow, he didn’t think she would appreciate that very much. “Zarala wouldn’t like it if I bruised you, nor Guran, either.”

  
“Hmm, well, help me carry this stuff into our room and then I’ll try to find a set of jeans to wear,” she asked, winking at her small shadow. “Zarala needs to go find out if she can get her helmet to fit. And then we need to get the blades we use ready. Go on, Zarala, we’ll clean the tack later.”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” said the girl reluctantly. “You be careful, both of you!” Then she vanished, helmet in hand.

  
“That,” said the Phantom, “is a girl with a lot of determination. And it was me she meant to be careful, not you! Two weeks ago, she’d never have said anything to me at all, unless a horse was in trouble. Now, she as much as orders me to keep my hands off of you. You have made quite a change in her, Donna, and in only two days.”

  
“Oh, she’s a nice person,” Donna told him, gathering up a few boxes. “I’m sure she’s not just worried about me. Put that bag there on top, will you, Kit?”

  
A little later, clad in loose jeans, a sweatshirt of gray and her sneakers, Donna was tying rags made of unused underwear around swords. Satisfied at last, she tossed the blade he’d chosen to her lover. Her own she kept in her left hand.

  
“That ought to work, Kit. Just like the old days in the Middle Kingdom’s Tourney,” she said, smiling. “Although, I used to win those contests.”

  
“I knew I should have asked for a handicap,” he said, trying out the muffled sword. The balance was not much different, certainly not enough to bother him. “Ready to face your fans?”

  
“Sure,” she said, and began to hum the music from ‘Ben Hur’ that had accompanied the parade of the charioteers. He laughed, and picked up her helmet as they passed out of the Cave into the early evening heat of the Deep Woods.

  
He hadn’t been exaggerating, she saw, everyone was there, including the taller folk. Dr. Dorn was letting a little boy use him as a vantage point, Donna noticed, and a respectful area had been left clear. Donna flourished her sword in salute, winking at Zarala in the front row.

  
“Are there any rules?” she asked him as they strolled to the center of the impromptu arena. “You know, thirty seconds and break, or don’t step outside the line, like that?”

  
“No, just say when you want to stop,” he told her, watching as she stretched her long leg muscles and shoulders. He had done his stretching while she padded the sabers. “And no hiding in the crowd.”

  
“Naturally not,” agreed Donna, knowing she was going to be beaten, and not really caring, for the first time she could recall. Not that she wasn’t going to try. “En garde, then!”

  
For several moments they tested each other, circling warily, tapping the padded weapons briefly. Donna knew she was no match for his strength, and not likely to be as fast, so she’d have to use surprise, and probably her smaller size to her advantage. Their audience was as quiet and tense as if it had been an Olympic medal bout, though Donna didn’t notice that. Her focus was on her opponent, waiting for the proper moment.

  
When it came, the conflict was almost faster than the eye could follow, Donna using both one and two hands, a fusion of eastern and western styles that had served her well in the past. It did nothing but delay the Phantom’s disarming of her, the sword flying through the air to land behind him. She flipped into a forward tumble, snagging her saber as she rolled, and swatting his leg as she back-flipped to her feet. A roar of surprise and approval came from the crowd. Panting, she faced him at a bit of a distance, blade held in both hands, watching for his next move.

  
“You,” he said quietly, “did not learn that in fencing class.”

  
“Look, Kit,” she said with a fierce grin, “I asked about the rules. You’re the one who said there weren’t any!”

  
After that, she had no more victories, for his speed and strength were more than a match for her agility and cunning. She held her own long enough to win his respect, however, and that in itself was a victory for her. The spectators, many fully aware of their big friend’s ability, were impressed by the talent of such a small, slender woman to even slow his inevitable victory.

  
“Okay,” she said, stepping back and lowering her blade. “I’ve had it, Captain Blood. I yield. The sweatshirt and helmet sounded like a good idea, but the actual execution is less than pleasant.”

  
“You are very good with a blade, Donna,” he said, not even breathing fast. “If a bit unconventional. Where did you learn that roll-and-flip routine?”

  
“Gymnastics,” she told him, stripping off helmet and sweatshirt. The halter top beneath was more than she wanted, but she left it on out of deference to his possessive attitude. She left her jeans on, as well, and Zarala gave her a glass of water. Donna drank half of it, and poured the other half over her head.

  
“Ahh, thanks, Zarala,” she said, returning the cup to her tiny friend. “A lot of the things I used on you, or tried, were moves I learned from the Society, not fencing class. By their rules, though, you would have had to fight on one leg after I hit you. You’d still have had me, though, easy.”

  
“I don’t understand why you were beaten in competition, Donna,” the Phantom commented, taking the ragged remains off of the blade he had chosen. “You’re quite good enough to place in the collegiate finals in the States, although you’d have to change your style a little.”

  
“Bad day, good opponent,” shrugged Donna. “But if I’d been as good then as I was today, I would have won, and gone on to the Olympic Trials, maybe. And you still beat me without even trying. I can’t believe how fast you are.”

  
“The Phantom moves faster than a deerfly, the fastest creature on earth,” quoted Guran, standing up and taking charge. “Old jungle saying. Now, let us eat.”

  
“There’s a saying I’ve always liked,” said Donna, mopping her face with her sweatshirt. “Let me wash my hands and put away my gear. Here, Kit, I’ll take yours back, too.”

  
She went back into the Cave, carrying weapons and gear, leaving the pygmies to lay out the food on the lawn. As they worked, they discussed the contest with the attention of sports fans. Many a banana leaf was used to demonstrate some move that had caught their keen eyes.

  
“She is very quick,” commented Guran to his old friend. “Twice more she could have had you, after the first time. But she held back on a strike to the head.”

  
“I would have blocked it,” he said thoughtfully, rotating his arm at the shoulder. “But it would have been close. I think I was teaching more than just Donna.”

  
“The little one, Zarala?” asked Guran wisely. “They are kindred spirits, those two. My sister’s daughter is able to speak of nothing but your betrothed and her horse, and will hear no criticism of either.”

  
“They’ll keep each other occupied while I’m gone,” he said hopefully, seeing Donna and her small shadow returning. “Out of trouble, I hope. Heloise is coming in a week, and that should be enough to keep anyone safe, even Donna.”

  
“Your honored sister comes so soon?” exclaimed Guran, surprised. “Is she to supervise the wedding, then?”

  
“She probably will, Guran,” said the Phantom, leading Donna to her place on the grass. “You know how she is. But it’s Donna’s wedding, she’ll run it her way, no matter how my sister wants to.”

  
“Hey, I need all the help I can get on that,” Donna protested. “I don’t have a dress, I’ve only got one bridesmaid, and one guest, aside from my parents. I don’t even know where it’s going to be held, and I’ve never seen the chap doing the ceremony. I know people who plan their weddings for years, and still have problems.”

  
“Don’t worry, Lady Donna,” Zarala said loyally. “My mother and all her friends will help with the dress. Just tell them what you want it to look like. What color do you want?”

  
“That's part of my problem, Zarala," Donna explained, passing the 'plates' out. "I'm leaning toward mint green and lavender, but my mother will be mortified if I don’t wear white. Do you think white with lavender and mint trim would look nice?”

  
“I think you should ask an impartial observer,” said her fiancé, passing a bowl of still-nameless stuff. “I think you’d look good in anything. What do you think, Zarala?”

  
“She does!” agreed the tiny girl, bringing them water in wooden cups, then sitting beside Donna rather decisively.

  
“Guran?” asked the Phantom, passing another bowl to Donna and Zarala.

  
“I am a man, O Ghost Who Walks,” chuckled the stout Chief. “It is well known that men have little say in such things as weddings. And had better hold no strong opinions in the presence of the women involved. Ask Jula, or Konala, or Danila, or Muzi. If they hear that I have actually offered advice on clothing, I will be in serious trouble.”

  
“See what kind of help I’ve been getting?” Donna said to Zarala. “But they’re right. I need to talk to women. They’ll get things done right.”

  
“Right,” agreed Zarala, her mouth a little full. “What will Tim wear?”

  
“You’re in charge of that,” Donna told her solemnly. “Just make sure I can ride him after the ceremony. Kit and I are going off together for a few days by ourselves. If you keep feeding him bread, though, he’ll probably be happier with you.”

  
“Donna, did you say you were in the running for the Olympic fencing team?” asked the Phantom, putting more of something yellow on her plate. “I would have thought you more of an eventing candidate.”

  
“Tim and I were short-listed last time,” she admitted, trying a strange-looking vegetable that seemed to be a white beet. “We were looking good for the next games, too.”

  
“Do you still want to do that?” he asked, knowing the kind of training and drive most Olympic athletes had. It was a dream as strong as the desire to breathe. His mother had been a diver, winning two gold medals, and his sister a runner, winning another medal.

  
“I still dream about it,” she admitted, blushing. “Sort of proving myself as good, with Tim, as anybody else, I guess. It sounds so arrogant, sometimes, to say it, but we are that good, really.”

  
“I believe you,” her fiancé told her truthfully. “What stopped you?”

  
“You did, darling,” Donna told him, realizing as she said it that it was true. “I just now begin to understand how important you are, to me, to many people. You are a greater purpose for me to support than my own dream. Actually, you’ve become my dream, Kit. I don’t know if you’ll ever understand how much that dream used to mean to me, but it’s not even a consideration, now.”

  
“Donna, if you want to compete, you can,” he told her, knowing what would happen if she did. The idea of her being gone from his life for months at a time scared him. Was this how a woman felt when her husband went off to war? “And if you’re married to me, you’re Bengallan. You could be the Bengalla equestrian team, all by yourself.”

  
“Oh, Lady Donna,” exclaimed Zarala, envisioning such a thing with stars in her eyes. “Would you let me come along and clean your tack?”

  
“Zarala, you would be my first choice as groom and Chef d’Equip,” Donna told her, smiling. “But now that I’ve met the Phantom, all that seems like just practice for this life. Not that riding for Bengalla doesn’t appeal to me. That would mean riding as an individual, against the best in the world.”

  
“You have three more years to think it over, my Lady Donna,” her lover told her, handing her a banana from a fruit bowl. “Who knows? By then, Zarala might be ready to ride for Bengalla, too. Shall I mention it to the Jungle Patrol, the team idea, I mean?”

  
“Can the country afford a three-day team?” asked Donna, knowing that things were still probably tight, since the country was so recently out of a civil war. “That’s an expensive sport, you know.”

  
“Why?” Guran wanted to know.

  
“You need a good horse and rider pair,” Donna told him, ticking things off on her fingers, greasy with food, but mostly licked clean. “Then you need dressage gear, for both, and outfits for cross-country and show jumping. Then you need a coach, maybe one for each discipline. And you need to have at least one groom per horse. Also a place to train, food for the horse, transport and fees for qualifier events, the list is endless. Most big-name riders have a sponsor, corporate or otherwise, to help them afford the costs.”

  
“Well, think about it, Donna,” her fiancé told her, wondering how to get the idea across to the Jungle Patrol. Or Lamanda. He was sure she’d be safer doing that than helping him. Probably.

  
“How about we sleep on it?” she said, finished with her meal. The gleam in her eye told him that sleep was not the first thing on her mind. “You have a trip to make tomorrow, so you’ll need your rest.”

  
“Rest,” he mused, standing and putting the ‘plate’ on an empty tray. “I’ve never thought of that as rest. I do end up mighty relaxed, though.”

  
She was insatiable that night, taking command of his body for hours, it seemed. When they finally slept, well after midnight, both were exhausted, sated, and determined to repeat the experience as often as possible. Donna again dreamt of Olympic medals, and oddly enough, of the ocean around New Zealand.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More settling in

The next morning he was gone before she awoke. She stretched and savored the soreness, the muscle aches, the scent of his body around her, praying to whatever gods there might be that he return to her quickly. She finally rose, forced by the onset of her blood flow, as predictable as sunrise, and found her tampons, packed with underwear in a bag from the plane. As she bathed and dressed, she reflected that it seemed almost as if she hadn’t been truly alive until meeting the Phantom. Her lover, she said to herself, the pleasure of that simple idea making her heart beat faster.

  
Zarala met her in the entry, where she had spent the morning polishing and cleaning each piece of leather in Donna’s tack trunk. Scattered about the area in various stages of cleanliness, her lifetime of packrat’s nest accumulations was impressive. Tim’s rug and wraps, as well as any other cloth, were missing, and Donna guessed correctly that they were in the process of being washed. A book lay near Zarala, an old horse book, open to a drawing of a bridle. Donna’s boots shone like glass in the morning light, a match for Tim’s bridle and girth.

  
“You have been very busy!” exclaimed Donna, rather surprised at how much stuff she had had in that tack trunk. “Does your helmet fit, yet?”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” smiled the girl, putting down the bits and pieces of Tim’s old bridle. She took up the brown hat and put it on, fastening the harness as if she had practiced all night. “See?”

  
Donna rocked the velveteen-covered plastic experimentally, finding it a good fit. She saw that the girl had been trying to identify the parts of tack she was unfamiliar with. Donna knew that fascination herself, having done it with leather things found in a rummage sale donation.

  
“That’s perfect, Zarala,” the dark blond New Zealander said, impressed. It took days to get that done in Papakura. “How’d you do it?”

  
“My mother, Jula, made some cloth pads and sewed them into the lining,” Zarala said proudly. “She said to come and see her today about the wedding dress. I told her what you said last night, and she’s been working on ideas. I like the one with the fringe.”

  
“Can we do that now and have your lesson this afternoon?” asked Donna, knowing that she had really gotten up too late, as it was getting warm. “I’ve got to get up sooner, or get an alarm clock or something.”

  
“There’s some bananas on the bench, there,” suggested Zarala, putting down her cleaning rag. “This book isn’t much help on some of your things, Lady Donna. I can’t find some of it.”

  
“Well, it might be an old book,” said Donna, half a banana inelegantly in her mouth. “What are you trying to identify?”

  
“Most of it,” sighed Zarala, getting up. “Does Tim ever need a whip?”

  
“No, but my pony sometimes did,” Donna told her, starting her second banana. “We often had arguments, Shaggy and I. Mostly, I won, but only because I was a little bit smarter.”

  
“Is it alright if I leave things out like this for a little while?” asked Zarala, reluctant to leave her new treasure trove. “Some of it is still damp.”

  
“I don’t have a problem with that,” Donna told her cheerfully. “Let’s go see your mother, then we’ll come back and I’ll tell you all about this stuff, right?”

  
“Right!” agreed Zarala, taking Donna’s hand. “You can just throw the peels in the firepit, Lady Donna.”

  
“Thanks,” she said, doing so. “I didn’t want to leave them laying around. Do they burn?”

  
“Sure,” said the tiny girl, leading her idol through the village. “Or you can toss them in the brush. They compost very quickly, or so my Uncle Rumal says. I think they just rot fast.”

  
Many people greeted Donna and her small guide, allowing her to practice her growing Bandarese vocabulary, only a few times corrected by Zarala. A large house, made of thatch and a pole framework, was their destination, where women were weaving and working on various projects. Donna was greeted enthusiastically and seated at the entryway. Jula produced a variety of fabrics and sketches and set about finding Donna’s perfect dress.

  
“Something light and cool,” Donna said, recalling Kit’s remarks about silk. “Maybe white, edged in lavender and mint green. But I’ll need to be able to ride a little in it, for the honeymoon, you know.”

  
Jula and her friends consulted briefly and a sketch was pulled from the sheaf. A gown of elegant lines, it had been rendered in blue, but was close to the idea Donna had had in her mind. A quick look through the stack showed some truly masterful fashion designs, but Donna liked the one she had been shown first.

  
“But can I ride anywhere in it?” she asked, trying to see how she could do so without ruining the dress, her joke to Kit not withstanding.

  
“Just pick it up and let it drape over your horse,” Jula told her. “He’ll look quite elegant in white, and make you look even more striking. Now, this fabric will be very nice, I think, light and airy, for the cowl, almost like a veil. This might be better for the gown, I think, yes, less visibility through it. Stand up and let us take some measurements, Lady Donna.”

  
It was quite apparent to Donna that the ladies of the Bandar could easily have run their own fashion design firm. Inside of two hours they had a working sketch and were designing the embroidery. Two were in a heated argument over what Donna’s hair should look like, never once consulting their subject. Donna liked the dress design so much that she resolved to simply put some sort of cloth over Tim’s saddle to ride on, so that it would stay clean. It was evident to the Kiwi that she was both opportunity and challenge to Jula and her cohorts. After promising to return for later fittings, Donna was allowed to escape with Zarala back to the Cave.

  
“How does your mother know so much about fashion and style?” asked Donna of Zarala, as they sat in the shade by the cavern mouth eating fruit. “Does she get magazines or something?”

  
“Oh, she used to,” said Zarala, who had been informed of the saddle cover plan. “Our Phantom’s mother used to bring that sort of thing back here to show her. This is her big chance to show off her work, you see. Every lady in the tribe will be wearing their best, and my mother intends that most will be her designs.”

  
“Well, she’s very good,” Donna said, still impressed. “She could make a good living as a designer, I think.”

  
“But she’d have to go to Paris or New York or Rome,” Zarala said, tossing her fruit pit into the underbrush. “I wouldn’t mind going to visit those places, if they had horses, but this is my home. My mother would never leave the Deep Woods just for that.”

  
“Hmm, maybe we can do something about that without her leaving,” Donna said to herself, understanding the desire to stay in this beautiful, fascinating place. “Ready to learn all kinds of equestrian trivia?”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” said the girl eagerly. “Why do you have so many different bottles? And those two bags of grain, should I be feeding Tim that? And if so, how much?”

  
The two spent an enjoyable few hours discussing things equine, and gradually putting ‘their’ corner into something like order. Zarala had sampled the sweetened grain and found it excellent, concluding that Donna’s people treated horses properly. She wondered if her mother might not find a use for such things in human food. She was surprised at Donna’s declaration that such was made of lower quality grains, deemed unfit for humans.

  
“But it tastes fine,” she protested. “I’d eat it.”

  
“So would I,” Donna told her, “if I had to. But mostly it’s just for horses. High-performance horses like Tim and Hero. They love the stuff, too, because of the molasses, I think.”

  
“Do you think it’s cooler, now?” asked Zarala, eager for her lesson. Several bits of gear from the magical tack box were to be tried out today. The lunge line, an attempt at stirrups for her attached to a fuzzy bareback pad.

  
“Let’s wait a little longer,” Donna told her friend. “Have you ever been back to the bedroom?”

  
“No, Lady Donna,” said Zarala, wide-eyed. “Only the Phantom, and his family, go there. And my uncle, the Chief, I think. Why?”

  
“Well, I’m obviously not getting up soon enough in the mornings,” Donna told her, standing up. “If I’m all alone in there, like now, with Kit gone, would you come get me up? I’d like to ride early, before it gets hot, as well as late. Would that be alright with your uncle and you, or should I just get an alarm clock?”

  
“As long as you want me to, and show me where to go,” said the tiny girl, feeling honored. None of the rest of her friends had ever gone to such a secret place. What would it look like? She knew her mother and some of her aunts had been there, but no one her age.

  
“Come on, I’ll show you,” Donna offered, holding out a hand. “It’s no big deal, unless, of course, someone interrupts me and Kit. If he’s not here, nothing to interrupt, right?”

  
“I guess so,” admitted Zarala, vowing to be careful anyway.

  
“That’s awful big for a sleeping chamber,” she said on seeing it. “I guess you’d also use it during the rainy season, right?”

  
“I guess so,” said Donna, not having thought about it. “I suppose that’s what the stove is for, cold, rainy nights. In my country we get snow and sleet in winter, so I’m not sure I’ll want the stove. Right now I don’t even want to wear clothes, let alone think about a stove!”

  
“You don’t have to wear clothes,” Zarala told her shyly. “I mean, not everyone does. I don’t think you have to.”

  
“I’ve never seen much sense in clothes for clothes’ sake,” Donna told her friend, grinning. “But we’d best not tell your mother that!”

  
“She thinks clothes are decorative, more than anything,” Zarala said as they walked back through the cool Cave. “You need to wear certain clothes for riding, though, don’t you?”

  
“Sure, and for other things,” agreed Donna. “But if you just want to take a walk, or swim, or read a book, why use clothes? Besides, I’d like to work on my tan a little. I look like a _pakeha_ around all you Bandar.”

  
“What’s a _pakeha_?” asked Zarala, as they picked up the gear they intended to use. “I don’t know that word.”

  
“It’s Maori,” Donna told her, shouldering the saddle and pads. “It means white-skin, if you’re being polite, worse, if you’re not.”

  
“It doesn’t sound very nice,” said Zarala. “I don’t think I’ll remember it. But you have to be careful not to burn at first, if you try that.”

  
“How about if tomorrow we go to the swimming pool and swim and have lunch, then come back for your lesson?” Donna suggested. “I could work on my tan a little and get in some practice. And so could you.”

  
“It sounds like fun, Lady Donna,” Zarala said, wondering what sort of practice it would be. “Can my friends come, too? They love to swim.”

  
“Of course,” said Donna with a laugh. “I need to meet more people. And it won’t hurt for them to see you make Tim do his tricks, either. Here, Tim!”

  
The lesson went well, the makeshift saddle improving Zarala’s seat and security. Donna was quite pleased with her progress, and Tim’s willing cooperation. Afterward they went in search of something to jump, a fallen log or suitable bank, Donna showing her student what sort of things to look for in a fence. Several good fallen logs were found and Zarala got to both ride and watch Tim jump.

  
“What about the kind of fences people make?” Zarala wanted to know. “The kind with poles and side parts for shows. Can we make those? I know where there’s white clay to make them white, and some straight trees.”

  
“We’ll have something for you to learn on, don’t worry,” Donna assured her. “But the kind of fences you’ve seen in books aren’t easy to make with raw timber. Even where I come from, not everyone who rides has fancy jumps to practice on. Lots of us use old barrels, piles of tyres, scrap lumber and bushes. Of course, when you get to a show, your horse often decides he doesn’t like fancy stuff!”

  
“What about Tim?” asked Zarala, as they came back to the paddock. “Did he act that way?”

  
“Only once,” admitted Donna. “He likes to jump, and he’s very brave, but it was his first show and there were live chickens in the chicken coop jump! One made a noise just before we jumped and really startled him. He jumped it really big after the second time, but not much else has ever bothered him. He figures if I say so, he can do it. I just have to tell him how much effort to put out, sometimes.”

  
“He doesn’t just know?” asked Zarala, dropping to the ground from Donna’s saddle.

  
“No, that’s part of the trick to being good at cross-country jumping,” Donna told her, flipping into a flashy dismount more suited to a gymnastic routine than a real horse. “The horses never see the jumps before the event, even though the riders walk the course as many times as they like. So when you jump into water, your horse doesn’t know if it’s six inches deep, or six feet. He has to trust you that it’s okay.”

  
“How do you tell them to jump more than usual?” she said, taking off the bay’s bridle, with his cooperation.

  
“A combination of the aids,” said Donna, unbuckling the girth. “For Tim, leg and voice, mostly. Some horses require a crop, but I think that’s mostly bad training. If you have to beat a horse over a fence, he’s not going to like jumping.”

  
“Do all horses jump like Tim?” asked Zarala, watching the gelding roll in the grass, grunting with hedonistic pleasure. “I mean, so easy-looking?”

  
“Oh, no, some just aren’t built for it,” Donna said, hanging the saddle and pads on the fence. “Some land heavy, some have awkward take-offs, some drag their feet. Some think the world will end if they get all four feet off of the ground!”

  
“Why do they think that?” asked Zarala, hanging up the bridle on a fence post. The roughly trimmed saplings that had been used for the paddock fence had plenty of branch stubs for hanging up things, as well as for lashing the cross rails to them.

  
“I’m pretty sure that horses regard the earth as the one dependable thing in their lives,” said Donna thoughtfully. “Some people, too. That’s why it frightens them so if there’s an earthquake, or they get into deep mud or quicksand. Avoid the last two, by the way, they’re very bad for tendons.”

  
“I will,” promised Zarala, ducking under the fence with Donna. “Can I feed him some grain? I don’t think it will keep long in this climate.”

  
“Sure, but only a little,” Donna said, shouldering the saddle and pads again. “You can use that aluminum bucket for that, I think. If he won’t eat it, it’s already bad, and we’ll have to throw it away. Bad grain will colic a horse, and I don’t want that for Tim, or the others down the valley.”

  
“Can we throw it away in the fields where they grow things?” asked Zarala speculatively. “Then maybe some will grow.”

  
“I don’t know if the fungus would contaminate other crops,” Donna told her, “so we had better not. But, if he eats it, we could do that tomorrow morning on our ride. And we can give him a bath, too.”

  
“Would you like to come and eat with us tonight?” asked the girl shyly, as they racked the tack. “My mother said it would be alright.”

  
“Will you be really upset if I say ‘no’?” asked Donna, having had plans for the evenings her lover was gone. “I mean to spend the evening reading, you see. I need to find out about Kit, so I thought I’d read his Chronicle. Do you think that would be wrong?”

  
“Other Phantoms read them, and he read to us out of one, once,” reasoned Zarala, not at all upset. “You’ll be up all night, if you’re not careful! Aren’t you going to eat?”

  
“Just some fruit, like bananas,” Donna told her, “so I can keep my fingers clean. Don’t worry, I’ll go to bed at a decent hour, since I’m wearing my watch.”

  
“Alright, then,” said Zarala, getting out the cleaning rag. “I’ll be in to get you early. If you wake up sleepy, Lady Donna, I’ll know you didn’t listen.”

  
“I’ll see you in the morning, then, Zarala,” said Donna, taking her bunch of fruit, picked on their ride, down the hallway to the bath. Clean and fed, she spent several hours reading real-life adventures starring her fiancé. He had an understated style that made the actual events seem utterly real to her, and she was both impressed and horrified at the risks he routinely ran. Pirates, killers, thieves and assassins had felt her lover’s fist, like the hand of fate. Many apparently thought a jungle to be a lawless place, where they could do as they pleased, unfettered by rules. Most found that this jungle had rules to be obeyed at least as strictly as ‘civilized’ places, and far more swiftly enforced. She began to have some sympathy for the Colonel of the Jungle Patrol and his nephew.

  
It must be odd, having criminals and felons you had turned the world upside down for suddenly appear in your lap, she thought. No doubt it made your agency look good to outsiders, but it must make those in it a little nervous. No wonder they’d like to know more about their mysterious commander. And it must be hard to know that an unknown entity, who was your boss, could do things you couldn’t, and might wonder why you weren’t doing a better job. Kit’s remarks mentioned no such criticism, but the Jungle Patrol didn’t know that.

  
Having read barely the first three months of his life as the Phantom, Donna forced herself to go to bed, and had strange, unsettled dreams all night. A gentle touch woke her the next morning, and she was only a little disappointed to find it was Zarala.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jump building and cannibal news

“Good morning, Lady Donna,” the tiny girl said as Donna stretched. “Even you look tiny in that bed! I’ve got bananas and bread for breakfast as soon as you’re ready. I’ll be out with Tim in the pasture.”

  
“Scamp!” yawned Donna. “I’ll be out in a few minutes, I promise.”

  
They spent a happy, carefree day with what seemed like most of the children from both villages. Swimming and playing with the patient Tim, eating fruit and fresh greens, a wonderful time was had by all, although the children all thought it terribly funny that the tall woman couldn’t remember their names. They could all remember hers, they pointed out.

  
“It’s not the same,” she protested, in vain. “I’m the only tall, skinny, sunburned girl around. There’s hundreds of you!” That made them laugh even harder, and two fell into the water from the branch they were sitting on.

  
“It’s alright,” they told her, convulsed with laughter. “You’ve only been here a few days. You’ll remember. Of course, we’ll all be adults by then!”

  
Donna hid her face and admitted in embarrassment that it might be true. Actually, she was learning a few names at a time. Zarala’s sister, Moki, was easily identified by her resemblance, as was her cousin, Jokan, a stout boy of thirteen. It was he who had instructed her most usefully about throwing spears, another thing that they all thought she did amusingly. She was also not really very sunburned, having put on clothes again as soon as she had dried off from washing Tim and her brief swim.

  
“Well, everyone has different things they’re good at,” she sighed. “If I’m an idiot in the jungle, you’d all look pretty silly at a horse show, at least at first. But we can all learn, I just have to try harder.”

  
“Why would we look silly at a horse show?” a small boy of solemn features and a sly sense of humor wanted to know.

  
“Why, because you’re not horses,” Donna told him, feigning surprise at his question. “Why else?”

  
The Bandar children, Zarala included, found this very funny, even after she had explained what a horse show was. She found later that she had gained a reputation for comic wit far out of proportion to her silly remarks. She also had to tell them the story of how she had met her lover, with a demand for details that no reporter could have matched. They all had new respect for the placidly grazing Tim, who had spent some time earlier letting them dive off of his back while standing in the pool.

  
“He’s like Hero,” Zarala told them, “except he likes most people. He and Lady Donna might go to the world Olympics, too, to compete for Bengalla, like Prince Obiju did last year.”

  
Then she had to explain the concept of eventing to the whole group, her standings, and Tim’s, and what she’d have to do to qualify. She emphasized that she was no longer dead set on a medal, having found a whole new life, but they all seemed to find no conflict in such a thing.

  
“Just try,” was the group verdict. “What can it hurt?”

  
“Alright,” she said, giving in. “But can we wait to start until after the wedding? And I think I ought to see Dr. Dorn about immunizing Tim. Do you think he’s busy?”

  
“Not today,” volunteered one of the girls from the other village. “He’s cataloging bugs today. He collects them.”

  
“Then I suppose we’ll go and see him,” said Donna, shaking a couple of bugs off of Tim’s pad. “Shall we take him some more, or does he have enough?”

  
“He’s got thousands,” was the reply, as many of the children prepared to go home. “Way too many!”

  
“Two is too many,” she said in agreement. “Actually, two is two too many.”

  
Several caught the joke, and laughed, explaining it to the others and increasing her reputation for wit, at least among the children.

  
Walking beside Tim, who was ridden by Zarala and three other children, Donna came at last to the doctor’s house, a slightly larger version of everyone else’s house. Like all the other houses, it had a small porch with a garden around it, and the German doctor was there with a microscope, a magnifying glass, several books and a few jars spread around him. The excited chatter of children and the sound Tim’s hooves made him look up from his specimen, a big black beetle that Donna didn’t care to see closer.

  
“Ah, Fraulein McLaren,” he greeted her cheerfully. “And all your friends, I see. What can I do for you today?”

  
“I need to talk to you about Tim’s immunizations,” Donna said with a smile. “I told them that usually meant shots, and they all want to watch. They don’t believe that he doesn’t mind them!”

  
“Jah, well, you should see the fuss they put up sometimes,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You would think that I had killed them!”

  
“But it hurts!” exclaimed a small voice from the crowd of children. “It does!”

  
“Only for a little bit,” Donna told them. “If you just hold still and don’t look, it hurts less, I think. I’ve had my share of shots, too, you know.”

  
“Did you cry?” asked a young boy, curious.

  
“No, of course not,” she told him, seriously. “Crying won’t make it stop hurting. All crying does is tell everyone else that you hurt. Usually I put something cold on it and it stops hurting. Can’t do that if you’re crying.”

  
“Oh,” said the boy, thinking about it. “I guess.”

  
“Progress, Fraulein,” said the tall German, laughing. “Now what shots has he had before, your Tim?”

  
Later, greatly impressed with Tim’s stoicism, the little caravan returned to Tim’s paddock, where Zarala’s lesson was watched with curiosity and some envy for her courage. When Donna rode, there was much shouting and urgings to jump higher. As there was a lack of higher things to jump, Tim’s compliance was limited.

  
“It’s not the jumping stuff that decides the winner most often, anyway,” Donna told them. “It’s usually the dressage score. Oh, if you fall off on the cross-country part you usually loose, but most horses and riders do well at that. It’s hard to get a fit, excited horse to do dressage right when what he wants to do is run and jump.”

  
“Does Tim do that dress, uh, stuff, well?” asked Jokan, having already hatched a plan with his friends.

  
“Pretty well, although he does think it’s pretty sissy,” Donna admitted. “Most eventers do.”

  
“Could Hero do that stuff?” asked Moki, as most of the children drifted off to dinner.

  
“I don’t know if he’s ever done dressage,” Donna told her, watching her gelding roll in the grass. "But jumping, yes.”

  
“Then maybe some of the other horses could learn, too,” Zarala’s sister Moki told her. “They’re all related to Hero, I think.”

  
That evening Zarala and Donna went to look at the other horses, to which Donna was embarrassed to admit, she had paid no attention so far. Several mares and two geldings, as well as two weanling fillies were to be found, all a part of Hero’s herd. The fillies were good, strong horses for their ages, and most of the creatures showed the thoroughbred look of the stallion. The two geldings were placid brown beasts of even temper, apparently well broken, though young. All were friendly and curious, and knew Zarala well.

  
“I wonder if Kit would mind if I rode one of these boys while you rode Tim,” mused Donna. “Nothing builds riding skills like trail riding.”

  
“People who visit, and people who are brought here ride those horses,” Zarala told her. “I think the geldings are culls from the breeding program.”

  
“Any idea why?” asked Donna, patting one gray mare, one who had the look of a mare in foal.

  
“Not fast enough,” answered the girl. “And the bald-faced one is stupid.”

  
“If only we could do the same to humans,” sighed Donna, as they went back toward the village. “I know a lot of people too stupid to let breed. And most of them do. It’s the smart ones, who should, that don’t, if you see what I mean.”

  
“That’s what everyone was worried about before you came,” confided Zarala. “But Chief Guran says not to worry anymore, not that you’re here. Does that mean you’re going to have a baby?”

  
“Well, not quite yet,” Donna told her friend, laughingly. “But eventually I mean to. Just don’t tell anyone, yet, right?”

  
“Right,” agreed Zarala, pleased that it would not be right away. That would be inconvenient, equinely speaking. “Are you going to read again tonight?”

  
“Yep. I’m doing research, I tell myself,” Donna told her friend. “But it’s so much fun to read I can hardly stop myself.”

  
Having eaten earlier with Jula, Moki and their rather largish family, at Jula’s insistence, Donna had no trouble finishing four more months of her lover’s records that night. She slept well, if lonely, surprised again at how soon she had grown to expect, even need, the warm, strong body of her lover beside her. She woke up reaching for his absent form, only to find that it was Zarala, grinning at her as if she knew what Donna felt.

  
That day, since he’d had shots the day before, Tim didn’t work, but Zarala and Donna did, and had help from many of the other children. They set up makeshift jumps around the pasture, made of piles of rocks, sticks, brush and anything else that might work. The afternoon was spent in the fringes of the forest around the meadow setting up cross-country jumps. The children, and a few adults who had heard about Donna’s Olympic dream, learned a lot about jumps, what horses could and couldn’t do.  
Late that afternoon, as the builders noisily demanded stories from Donna in the shady village, a mild commotion arose. Donna saw a small group of warriors handing bundles to women as they clustered around Chief Guran. Though her language skills were improving, the New Zealander couldn’t follow the conversation.

  
“What’s going on?” she asked her friends, who were all listening intently. She was hushed quickly. Soon an armed band of Bandar warriors, led by Zarala’s Uncle Rumal, trotted purposefully off to the northwest.

  
“That was a message from the Mori fisherfolk,” Moki told her seriously. “They saw a bunch of Mussanga on the coast as they came here from the capitol. They were heading into the area around our territory, and looked like a hunting party.”

  
“Is that bad?” asked Donna, not recalling anything about the Mussanga tribe. “Shouldn’t they hunt? Everyone needs to eat.”

  
“Not what the Mussanga eat,” exclaimed Jokan with some speed, so that he could be the first to tell Donna. “They’re cannibals. This close to the coast is a sure sign they’re hunting people, not animals. Chief Guran sent some warriors to chase them away.”

  
“Cannibals!” exclaimed Donna, to everyone’s delight. “That’s a very bad habit, you know. Recent studies are showing that that can lead to serious disease and even mental problems. There’s people in India that have a rare brain disease that’s passed on by eating their dead relatives.”

  
“Well, there are people who say the Mussanga have an intelligence problem,” admitted Jokan, disappointed not to have shocked or scared Donna. “Of course, no one else likes them much.”

  
“So if one asks me to dinner,” said Donna with a grin, “he really means to have me for dinner, eh?”

  
Screams of laughter greeted this old chestnut, and most of the group broke up, running to tell the joke to others.

  
“It really wasn’t that funny,” Donna told Zarala as they fired up the propane stove. Donna intended to make a New Zealand style dinner for her friends, Zarala’s family. The two had dug the potatoes themselves and were going to boil them. Three rabbits were at the ready to be cooked and eaten by the horde, as Donna expressed it. Salad greens awaited her experiment with dressing.

  
“Yes, it was,” Zarala said with a giggle. “The very idea of any Mussanga asking for anything is funny. They always take anything they want. But they only eat humans on special occasions these days. That’s probably why they’re hunting so far west. They may have a few captives already, and since they know the coast is more populated, they came here. They’ll want ten or twenty to take back, and they’ll eat one before they return, usually the weakest, or the most troublesome.”

  
“Well, your uncle will get rid of them,” Donna said, with more confidence than she felt. “Won’t he?”

  
“Yes,” said Zarala, looking doubtfully at the chairs and table. “He’ll be there sometime tomorrow night, and the Phantom may be there, as well. He’s probably heard from other people on his way back here.”

  
“Would they eat him?” wondered Donna, hoping that he never saw the savages.

  
“They tried, once,” Zarala told her. “They do like white people, it’s said. But he routed the main group, I forget how, and they all fled back to the foothills of the Misty Mountains. They spend a lot of time fighting the Tirangi.”

  
Dinner went well, although the pygmy Bandar had a little trouble with the larger furniture, and ended up eating on the floor. Donna sat on the floor, too, and everyone helped with the cleaning up, pointedly mentioning that it was easier with banana leaves and hands.

  
That night Donna read of the Mussanga encounter, and was quite interested. It seemed that before eating a person, the men tied the naked victim to a post, or tree, and tortured them for a few hours. Afterward, the victim was roasted, having been cut into pieces. Women and children were never allowed to eat human flesh, the boys only after their puberty. Some particularly troublesome prisoners were allowed to live long enough to see their arm or leg being eaten. Donna fell asleep very glad that she had been practicing with her spears.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donna fights some cannibals, gets hurt and saved by the Phantom

The next morning, while they were passing the Radio room, Donna heard a squawk from the equipment. Never having heard anything from it before, she went in to see what was happening. She saw several lights lit up on the devices. Had Guran perhaps accidentally turned something on, or had someone tried to call Kit? She carefully turned a knob marked ‘volume’ up a little, and was rewarded by a voice, crackling with static.

  
“…day, mayday,” said the voice. “This is Baker Air Two down and under attack. My assailants appear to be Mussanga cannibals, any help appreciated. I am on the shoals at Catch Demon Beach, unable to fly. Mayday, I say again, Mayday,” and suddenly a slight shriek and the sounds of struggle were cut off.

  
Donna looked at Zarala in shock and recognition. That had been Mandy Baker.

  
“Where’s Catch Demon Beach?” said Donna, and suddenly remembered the map on the wall behind her. She spun around and after a few moments found the place on the map. “Zarala, where are we?”

  
“On the map?” said Zarala, seeing her worry and excitement. “About there, you see?”

  
“Can you take me there?” asked Donna, already planning her ride. “On Tim, really fast?”

  
“I think so,” said Zarala, alarm on her face. “What are you going to do, Lady Donna?”

  
“Go help Mandy Baker, I hope,” Donna said. “Get your weapons, Zarala, and I’ll saddle up.”

  
“Shall I tell anyone?” asked the tiny girl uncertainly. “Chief Guran will be worried.”

  
“Will he try to stop us?” asked Donna as they headed to the entry of the cavern.

  
“Probably,” Zarala admitted, not so sure that Lady Donna shouldn’t be stopped.

  
“Then, no,” Donna decided. “I’ll tell him on our way out. Tim!”

  
The gelding had been grazing on the grass around the Skull Throne, having been allowed to roam free the day before. He had found humans and nearness to his particular human more congenial than unknown horses down the valley. He came to her, ears pricked at the tension in her voice. Zarala shot away to get her bow and deadly arrows, while Donna saddled the taut gelding. She was glad she had her old Steuben saddle now, for the places on the pommel where a saber had once hung now served that purpose again. She spared time to stamp on her boots over the light gray slacks she wore, slung water bottles over the back cantle, tightened her girth and leaned her spear against the cave wall.

  
Zarala pelted back into the cave with two hard loaves of bread in hand, her weapons at her back.

  
“Good thinking, Zarala,” Donna said, putting them in the pouches beneath their water. “Up you go.”

  
She vaulted to the gelding’s back behind her friend, snatched up her spear with her right hand and urged the bay out of the cavern. They trotted out of the village, shouting to Jokan what they were doing as they passed. He stared at them with round eyes as they disappeared into the forest, then bolted for the village.

  
The way out of the valley and into no-man’s jungle was steep, but easily negotiated by the horse. Zarala had been this way several times, as the Bandar often gathered shellfish in season from Catch Demon Beach. The road was easy, and wide, once they found it, an old coastal highway from the Empire’s day, Zarala told her.

  
“Convenient,” commented Donna as Tim began the mile-eating gallop he used for eventing. “Is this the road your uncle will be using?”

  
“I think so,” said Zarala, thrilled and scared at once. “What will we do when we get there?”

  
“We’ll have to decide when we see what we’re up against,” Donna told her, hoping that Mandy hadn’t been eaten already. Or worse. “Do you think they eat women?”

  
“I don’t know,” admitted the tiny girl, hands gripping the whipping black mane. “Let’s not get caught to find out!”

  
“That’s a good plan,” laughed Donna, in spite of her worries. “Let’s stick to it!”

  
Donna’s worries were almost as numerous as her co-conspirator’s. She was disobeying Kit’s orders, breaking her promise to him. In spite of the worthiness of her reasons, he was going to be angry, she was sure. She hoped that she was alive in a few days for him to yell at. An unknown number of cannibal warriors, with a few prisoners, no doubt firmly secured, at least ten, she assumed. Of course, if she could free Mandy she would have another ally.

  
Tim, her faithful warhorse on many a ride, was her main weapon, she decided, hoping he would not get hurt. She also had her spear and sword, and the trail knives, hers and the one Kit had chosen for her. Zarala and her bow would have to be her back-up, since she could not shoot from a moving horse, and was too tempting a target in the open. Also, if everything went wrong, she stood a chance of escape while shooting from cover.

  
Donna had considered her machete, and her plainer spears, but left them in favor of the saber and her Wambesi spear. More weapons wouldn’t help, she figured, if these failed her. The ground-eating, rolling gallop, the even rhythmic breathing of her mount soothed her a little, as it always had before. She hoped her horse would escape if she were caught. She supposed that if the Mussanga ate people, they were probably barbaric enough to eat horses, as well.

  
They got off of Tim and walked during the hottest part of the day, eating their bread, chance fruits and drinking water. Tim drank, as well, after an hour or so of walking, girth loosened to air his back. Alert as a cat, the bay tested the air constantly, his ears flicking in a search pattern examination of their surroundings. Zarala warned her not to speak much, since even though most animals hid and napped during midday, a lot of noise might draw unwanted attention.

  
A breeze from the sea picked up, and Donna and Zarala remounted, checked their gear and trotted on. As they picked up Tim’s gallop, Donna heard surf in the distance. Half an hour after they had remounted, they passed the Bandar warriors. Concealed in the brush, having heard the pound of hooves, the pygmy band watched in astonishment as the three sped swiftly on their way. Rumal abandoned stealth and the Bandar began to run. The bride-to-be of the Ghost Who Walks and his young niece running into peril on wings of speed, he thought, horrified. What were they doing out here courting death?

  
Donna cursed as they glimpsed their goal, a sandy beach, beautiful and serene, except for the beached seaplane, nose down in the sand. Above the tide line, a wide area of disturbed sand showed where Mandy had gone, all unwilling, hours before. A babble of low voices from the trees told where their quarry was now. They ghosted forward, Tim’s hooves silent in the sand, just near enough to see that they had no time to loose.

  
Tied to a convenient tree trunk, an old driftwood giant, half buried in the earth, was Mandy Baker. Naked, she had still put up a fight, from the look of several men laying unmoving around the edge of the clearing. So much that only her hands were tied behind her back, and her neck was roped to the tree. Donna eyed the watching captives and decided they were too well-guarded to free yet.

  
“Zarala,” she whispered, “take a good spot over near the prisoners. When I get their attention, free them, then start shooting anyone I’ve missed. Right?”

  
“Right,” said the tiny girl, not at all concerned anymore. “Be careful!”

  
The brown-clad elf was gone, a whisper through the brush. Donna saw the dozen or so of the cannibals who had survived Mandy’s capture were now finished with their fire pits, off to one side of the clearing, in easily dug beach sand. As she worked her way around to her chosen place, Donna saw the men pick up viciously serrated spears and clubs of hardwood set with sharp stones, then surround Mandy. She choked a few curses at them, daring them to come inside the range of her feet, but they laughed and made sexual gestures at her. Donna saw the apparent leader, a man hung with bone necklaces, raise his club to hit the pilot, and threw caution to the winds.

  
An ear-piercing Maori war-cry rang above the clearing and the thunder of Tim’s hooves. At full gallop, the bay slammed into one Mussanga, and kept going, even as Donna’s Wambesi spear bounced its brass butt off of another’s skull. With skill sharpened by need, the razor edge of the weapon sliced through the rope around Mandy’s neck. As she passed the pilot, the blond brought the head around like an ax and chopped through the leather that bound the brunette’s wrists to the tree trunk. She didn’t stop the big bay, but deliberately asked him to trample another couple of bone-decorated hunters standing behind the captive. Tim spun around almost of his own accord and leapt back at the armed men, teeth bared, ears flat, ready to savage any two-leg who came into his reach.

  
“Run, Mandy!” screamed Donna, as they ran down another Mussanga. Donna saw the small form of Zarala at one end of the line of captives, but though they were on their feet and shouting, they were still tied by their necks to a huge tree. Donna threw her spear, intending it to land in the soil at the first man’s feet, but Tim kicked a Mussanga in the leg at that moment, and she didn’t see where the weapon went.

  
Lieutenant Hayakawa saw, however, and remained convinced ever after of the blonde’s expertise with weapons. With the change of speed and aim caused by Tim’s movement, the blade sliced cleanly through the rope around the tree, and the Jungle Patrolman made haste to cut his wrists bonds with its sharp head. Buried half into the live wood, the shaft was a magnet to the other captives, who frantically cut their bindings as well. Zarala vanished to a secure place and began shooting at the downed Mussanga, careful to keep well away from moving allies and the scattering captives.

  
Donna pulled her saber in a hiss of steel, Tim a rearing, snorting demon beneath her. She uttered her battle-cry again and aimed Tim at the head cannibal. The gelding snapped at the man on his left, even as Donna’s steel cut through the chief hunter’s club. Another luckless Mussanga felt Tim’s steel-shod hooves as they crossed the clearing again.

  
Mandy Baker, though nude, was no nymph to flee her foes, no matter what she heard from the crazed blond valkyrie. A warrior staggering from Tim’s kick was put out of his misery with a broken neck. Another, with a sword cut across his arm, spurting blood, was efficiently killed with a kick to the throat. It became a question not of escape, but of vengeance, and Mandy Baker was not a woman to leave vengeance unfinished. At the end, only Tim, Donna, Mandy, Lieutenant Hayakawa and Zarala stood alive. All the Mussanga lay dead or dying, the captive Oogaan and Wambesi fled.

  
“Lady Donna,” piped Zarala, “we’d better get out of here. I’m out of arrows, and there’s another bunch like this nearby. I heard one say so before you charged.”

  
“Right, Zarala. Mandy, forget your clothes, and get your feet moving! You! Go with her. That way. We’ll cover you. Zarala, show them the way. Hurry, I can hear someone coming!” Donna yanked her spear from the tree it had lodged in and reined Tim back to cover their escape route. Two, or even three of them might have escaped on Tim, but four would have been impossible, even for the gallant thoroughbred.

  
Even as she waited for her friends to get far enough away to be certain of escape, she wondered at her normally even-tempered horse’s savagery. He’d fallen on the cannibals like a man-eater himself, and at least half of the bodies in the clearing bore hoof marks. She stroked his taut, sweaty neck, praising him softly, listening to the nearing sounds of a large group of people in a hurry.

  
To her, the emerging bunch of men looked exactly like the first group, with two important exceptions. The first of these was a very elaborately decorated leader, the second was a far higher number. They stopped in a disorganized mass, staring at the unmoving bodies of their compatriots, and at the single mounted woman awaiting them. Tim reared and pawed, displaying his bloody hooves, and Donna watched the leader, never realizing what a frightening sight she was to the Mussanga.

  
The leader, sensing that his men were about to decide to run, did the only thing they really understood. He shouted to them to attack, it was only a silly woman on a horse, and a white woman, at that. No woman could use a spear, or beat a true warrior, could she? Catch her, kill her, eat her! Stung to obedience by his scornful admonishments, the hunters reluctantly advance across the clearing, and the bodies of their comrades. Donna was despairingly aware that her friends had not had time to escape yet.

  
“Good-bye, Kit,” she said to herself. “I hope Tim gets back to you.” Her only hope seemed to be to break through their line and lead them in the other direction, circle back, and catch up to Zarala’s group. She hefted her spear and muttered a brief prayer to her _atuamoana_ , Apakura, cued Tim and sang her Maori battle cry.

  
Though Tim lunged forward with all the willing, savage power at his command, this group, though battered by his hooves, and slashed by his teeth, was larger and much more coherent. Donna heart-thrust a warrior with her spear and pulled her sword, laying about her with all the fury of Tim himself, clearing the area around them briefly. Unseen behind her, the head cannibal, wicked club in hand, leapt to Tim’s rump and clouted Donna across her head. Tim reared, the humans falling to the sandy mulch, Donna still and unmoving, the chief cannibal scrambling to escape the horse.

  
Concentrated on their own drama, the other Mussanga did not see the grim-faced giant on the huge white stallion thunder out of the jungle behind them. Too far away to save his lover, the Phantom was furious and terrified by turns. Hero trampled many in his passage, but Tim was bent on revenge, as well, and was far closer to his target. The valiant gelding smashed the chief of the Mussanga hunting party to red paste. Hero came to an abrupt halt between the tribesmen and the fallen blond, his rider looming like a dark-faced purple storm cloud over them. They backed away hastily, weapons ready, sure that at any moment the storm would unleash it’s fury and destroy them.

  
“You trespass on the Deep Woods,” he said in a voice of cold, controlled fury. The voice of the angry Phantom, an old jungle saying had it, could freeze the blood, and it was so for the Mussanga. “You take captive those under my protection. And you strike down the woman who is to be my wife. Leave now and hunt no more, or I shall break my vow not to kill.”

  
The Mussanga stared at each other in horror. They had struck down the Phantom’s woman? Their lives were forfeit should any tribe learn of their crime, especially the pygmy Bandar. The Phantom ignored them and knelt by the woman’s still form, the blond hair now stained with blood. If they killed the Phantom, one man whispered, they might yet escape. Yes, agreed another desperately, or at least hurt him enough to give them a start. No, advised the eldest cannibal, this had been a cursed hunt from the start. He would be occupied by the woman for long enough. The others took a firm grip on their weapons and their courage, and prepared to attack.

  
Tim nosed his human’s foot gently, then turned to face the cannibals, his head low, ears flat on his skull, teeth bared in an equine snarl. Hero looked at the bay for a moment, then took up a similar position, though his head was up and ears alert. Just as the Mussanga had nerved themselves up to a charge, a flight of small arrows struck the dirt before them, and the Bandar erupted from the jungle. Though wet with sweat, their bows were steady, and as one the cannibals turned and ran, unwilling to face certain death. They never returned to the coastal area, and a generation of their tribe, warned by their tale, refused to go west even a little way. In the course of the telling, the tale grew and did little to give confidence to any who thought of crossing the taboo area near the Deep Woods.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down for the count

The Phantom, ignoring the Mussanga, knowing that Hero would let him know if they attacked, carefully lifted Donna’s copper-blond hair to feel for the pulse at her throat. He was relieved to find it strong and clear. The flood of relief at finding her alive gave him a feeling of cold water down his spine and choked him with emotion. He realized that her black velvet helmet had deflected most of the blow, saving her life. The blood came from a small split of her scalp beneath the edge of the protective plastic shell.

  
Though she seemed unharmed otherwise, the masked giant didn’t move her, though she lay face down on the hoof-churned earth. He did carefully remove the helmet, the velvet torn from the savage blow.

  
“Does she live, o Ghost Who Walks?” panted Rumal, one eye on the horses. Tim had watched the Mussanga leave and now looked much less likely to kill someone. Hero maintained his alert, watchful stance.

“We came as fast as we could, but her horse is swifter than Bandar feet.”

  
“She’s alive, Rumal,” said the Phantom, forcing the words out around the tightness of his throat. “I don’t think her neck is broken, either. But she’s got a bad concussion, at least. Why was she here? Why risk her life in open battle with so many Mussanga?”

  
“Because of me, Phantom,” came a sad reply. “I thought she just meant to wait a few moments and run, but now I see she meant us to escape.”

  
Zarala sat down in the dirt at Donna’s side and the Phantom saw tears running down her face. She picked up the damaged helmet and hugged it to her slender body, staring at her idol laying motionless in the sand. Tim blew gently in her hair and nosed her shoulder, but she ignored him.

  
“Only you, Zarala?” asked the Phantom, carefully holding Donna’s head as he rolled her to her back. His hand came away bloody, but no other wound marked her, to his relief. “She could have run away with you, so it can’t be your fault.”

  
“I had to show the others which way to go,” insisted the girl. “They couldn’t all ride Tim.”

  
“What others?” asked the Phantom sharply.

  
“Them,” said the girl, pointing, her eyes still running tears. “The white girl and the man. They couldn’t run fast enough to escape.”

  
The Phantom rose and saw Mandy Baker pulling on her shirt nearby, the ropes on the stake telling the story to his keen eyes. A young man in the rags of a Jungle Patrol uniform was trying not to watch her. A sigh escaped the massive chest. Naturally, he said to himself. Mix Mandy Baker with Donna and get near disaster. The young oriental man was now trying not to stare at the masked giant.

  
“Don’t worry, Zarala,” he told the tiny girl. “She’ll be alright. She’s just got a bad bump on the head is all. Get some of that man’s shirt, or Mandy’s, to wrap her cut with, will you? We’ll head for the Deep Woods as soon as I’ve stopped the bleeding.”

  
In moments the girl was back with both of the former captives, and Mandy willingly shortened her white cotton shirt to make a bandage for Donna, ignoring her own cuts and scrapes. Some were fairly bloody, but did not seem to bother her.

  
“Do you need more?” she asked. “I can cut off some of my slacks, too.”

  
“This should do, Mandy,” he said, carefully daubing at the wound, trying to keep her hair out of it. “Head wounds almost always bleed more than you think they should. It’s going to be really sore for a while, though. Can you ride?”

  
“Horses?” asked the small pilot, glancing a bit apprehensively at the two big creatures, one watching his human intently. She had seen the bay stamping down cannibals like grass, and had her doubts. “Sometimes.”

  
“How about you, lieutenant?” asked the costumed giant. “Does the Patrol still require riding as a skill?”

  
“Yes, ah, sir,” admitted the man, having the same doubts as Mandy about the horses available. “Why do you ask?”

  
“Because I’m taking Donna home, and I doubt her horse will want to be separated from her. The two of you might as well ride him back. Zarala has been riding him for a while, she can talk him into the job, I think.”

  
The short patrolman stared at the big man in surprise and a little awe. He knew what this legend called home, and had never expected to be taken there. He also had heard the theories about this jungle hero being the same as the unknown Commander, but wouldn’t the Commander know that riding was still required? The big man was holding the blonde’s head in his lap as he gently tied the white cotton rag around her skull.

  
“I don’t know,” Mandy said doubtfully, still eyeing the bay. “What about my plane?”

  
“Does anyone know where you were going?” asked the man in purple, carefully setting Donna’s head back on the sandy soil. The Bandar were checking the bodies of the Mussanga, retrieving Donna’s spear and sword as they went. Zarala was petting Tim, and it seemed the two were consoling each other. Rumal cleaned off Donna’s blade and thrust it into the earth. The two former prisoners were somewhat reassured when the big bay lay down at the command of a pygmy child, delivered in English. Zarala, with some effort, pulled the saber from the earth, wiped it clean with her brown shirt, and cased it on Tim’s near side.

  
“They know where I was going,” said Mandy, still reluctant. “But they don’t know where I ended up. I had an electrical problem and had to land, got hung up on the shoals. I doubt if anyone forty miles away could hear me. I’m kind of surprised you heard me.”

  
“I didn’t,” said the giant, seeing Zarala urge Tim to his feet, with her perched on his neck. “Donna did, though. We’ll get someone out to fix it later. Get on the horse, or walk, take your pick.”

  
“Okay, okay,” sighed the girl, mounting with a fair amount of competence. “Nice horse, good boy. Come on, Shunji.”

  
“Uh, maybe I should walk,” said the slight man, eyeing the big horse with reluctance. The Phantom simply picked him up like a child and placed him on Tim’s back behind the saddle. “Or not.”

  
Hero dropped to the ground as Tim had, and the masked giant gently gathered up his lover, head carefully supported, and straddled the stallion. Though the big white came to his feet rather roughly, the woman in the Phantom’s arms was not jostled. Hero turned to Rumal with knee pressure alone and the Phantom said something to the pygmy leader in Bandar. Then he set Hero off into the jungle.

  
“Come,” was all he said to the others. Zarala, reins in hand, let the big bay follow his friend Hero and his unconscious rider. Mandy found that Donna’s stirrups were far too long for her and spent the time they moved through the underbrush at a walk adjusting them to her own size. Lt. Hayakawa tried not to think about the feel of her body against his as they rode, watching the shadowed purple form ahead of them.

  
He ran over what he had heard of the being the natives called the Man Who Cannot Die. The stories said that he couldn’t be killed, had enormous strength and speed. He was also said to be the mortal enemy of evil men, pirates and killers. The rumors around the Jungle Patrol Headquarters barracks said he had had a hand in the apprehension and pending extradition of the Firebug Gang, only a few days ago.  
Hayakawa could attest to the strength of the man, and the careful control argued even greater strength held in reserve. The sheer presence of the man, the force of his personality seemed to be enough to have command of Mandy Baker, which Hayakawa had previously thought would require a heavenly edict. She even seemed to know him, and he had known her by name. Hayakawa had never thought of the beautiful, trouble-prone pilot as consorting with ghosts and superstitions before, but now it seemed entirely logical. Guardian and protector of the jungle, hunter of criminals, naturally he had met Mandy Baker, trouble incarnate.

  
The patrolman had watched with faint hope, and much admiration when the slim young pilot had fought, and even disabled, some of their captors. He’d been astonished and awed at the blond valkyrie’s assault, her horse an extension of her own will as they cut down the Mussanga. But when the masked giant had appeared, the remaining cannibals seemed to have fled. He was obviously much attached to the girl in his arms, Donna, he had called her, as was the tiny brown girl who held her horse’s reins. Would an immortal jungle demi-god love a mere mortal, he asked himself, seeing again the tender care the legend had used to bind her wound. Of course, the blond warrior woman would be the type to attract someone in his business, Shunji Hayakawa thought, if anyone was.

  
The big white horse soon emerged from the overgrown brush around the clearing and found the wide tunnel of the ancient coast road. At no point did the lieutenant see any signal from the man, but the white stallion was suddenly cantering down the route, and the bay they rode followed, requiring a much firmer hold on Mandy Baker’s torso. Hayakawa also discovered that the old saddle was hard on parts of him, if he wasn’t very careful.

  
“Do you know where we’re going?” he asked, once he had gotten used to the motion. He was sitting on the bright saddle cloth the Llongo had given Donna.

  
“When he says ‘home,’” said Mandy, turning her head to speak to him, “it only means one place. The Skull Cave. Don’t worry, he’s an old friend. Dragged my dad out of the jungles of Burma nearly thirty years ago. Been a friend of the family ever since.”

  
“He doesn’t look that old,” commented the lieutenant, remembering tales of the Phantom of much greater age. The Commander, too, had remained ageless and mysterious from before the Patrol had kept records. Of course, the records of the Patrol only went back sixty or seventy years, due to an unfortunate fire. But other records, diaries, newspapers and travel books had been used to recreate much of it’s history. He had no idea how far back the actual history of the Jungle Patrol went, or how far back there had been an enigmatic figure leading it. Could the most effective police force in this part of the world really be guided by orders from an immortal jungle Hercules in skintight purple and a mask, he wondered. Then again, who would have thought people like himself could be captured and eaten by cannibals in this day and age?

  
They rode fast for as long as the road lasted, then walked the horses, walking themselves to ease the bay, more than the big white, who never seemed to tire. The dark giant never shifted his gentle hold on the still unconscious woman. Unseen by the gelding’s riders, the Phantom was becoming worried, knowing how chancy a head injury could be. He realized now that Donna’s helmet had not deflected the force of the Mussanga chief’s club so much as dissipated it. Instead of cracking her skull like an eggshell, as had been intended, the helmet had transferred the force of the blow to a variety of different parts of his lover’s body.

  
The spine, her back and neck had undoubtedly taken up some of the shock, but her entire skull had been jolted forward. Doubtless her brain had sustained a severe bruising, he thought hopefully, but if it had any swelling or bleeding inside the skull, matters would be far more serious. An operation might be required, he thought despairingly, knowing how risky such things could be.

  
They traveled late into the night, darkness and the trees blotting out the stars, making the use of blindfolds needless. When they came to the valley, Zarala dropped from Tim’s neck unbidden and raced to get the German doctor. Both Muzi and Dandoli lived near the Skull Cave, and would be roused soon enough. Their arrival caused a furor, even as late as they were. A crowd of Bandar in various stages of dress cried out at the sight of the Phantom’s burden and grim face. Torches blazed as he dismounted with Donna and entered the ghostly pale cavern’s mouth, as if swallowed up by a demon’s mask.

  
“Come on, Shunji,” said Mandy, as Tim halted near Hero. “We’re not going to be much use to her, so we might as well see to her horse. Get down, will you?”

  
“Oh, right,” said the gaping man, whose careful grasp of her waist had filled Mandy with an odd sense of pleasure and disappointment. He slid off the tired gelding’s rump and then held up a hand to the pilot.

  
“I think I can get down by myself,” she said with a smile. “Getting back on might require help. Huh!”

  
To her surprise, as she landed, her knees gave as if the tendons had been cut, and the Jungle Patrolman caught her in his arms as she nearly fell.

  
“Sure about that?” he asked, as she regained her feet in his arms. “Maybe you better let me take care of the horse.”

  
“Just give me a minute,” she said, still surprised at her body’s betrayal. “We can’t take care of Hero, but this horse will appreciate it.”

  
“Where should I put his tack?” asked Hayakawa, unwilling to release the thinly-clad pilot. “Just point out the general area and I’ll do it.”

  
“You’re sweet,” said Mandy, kissing his chin briefly. “But I’m fine now. Must have had the stirrups a little too short. Come on, this way, the stuff goes inside the Cave, usually, but that’s not a place we’re going to be welcome for a bit. Here, hang stuff on this rail.”

  
A pair of running people burst through the crowd and vanished into the cavern, now lit into it’s mysterious depths. The bay horse watched the cave mouth as intently as any of the pygmy folk who surrounded it. He made a low whicker of inquiry, as if calling his rider, ignoring the two humans who were stripping off his gear with awkward speed. He wasn’t interested in moving, cropping grass and chewing it while he watched alertly, as if hoping for a call to his mistress’ side.

  
“Well, I might have known you were involved in this mess, Mandy Baker,” said a richly toned voice behind them. An African-British accent softened the accusation. “What was it this time? Pirates, slavers, smugglers, plain old disaster?”

  
They turned to see an older African woman of normal height regarding them like children caught doing something naughty. Lieutenant Hayakawa was put in mind of the strict nun in his second grade class, Sister Agatha, often called ‘Agony’ behind her back. She wore an enormous muumuu-style dress, bright colors making her look like a tank that had been slip-covered by a hyperactive homemaker.

  
“Cannibals, engine trouble and saddle sores, Miss Tamaru,” said Mandy, even her aplomb dulled by the stern look. “And this is Lt. Shunji Hayakawa of the Jungle Patrol, who didn’t have engine trouble.”

  
“Well, come on then,” said the woman oppressively. “I’ll show you two a place to sleep. That lot won’t likely be finished until dawn. I suppose you’ve not eaten or had a drink, either, eh? And no other clothes, young lady? For shame.”

  
“I had to tear up part of my blouse for Donna’s head wound, Miss Tamaru,” explained Mandy in a subdued voice. “And it was me that almost got eaten, not the other way round.”

  
“No, ma’am,” said Hayakawa, determined to say as little as possible to this formidable woman. The less said, he thought nervously, the less chance of attracting her attention. Much like both Sister Agatha and any drill instructor he could remember. He did rather enjoy the change in Mandy Baker from amazon adventuress to chastened schoolgirl.

  
A small girl trudged up to them, tired, but determined. She took a look at Tim’s chest, feeling between his front legs, and sighed, the sound catching in her throat. She ran her hands up and down all four legs, and then held to the big creature’s neck as he nuzzled her. Zarala had come to Tim as Donna had before, for comfort and loving support. Tim was far happier to have one of his humans with him, as well.

  
“Zarala,” her mother asked, finding her there as the rescuees followed the schoolmistress to guest houses. “What are you doing?”

  
“I’m taking care of Tim, Mother,” said the tiny girl, still wearing her brown riding clothes and hat. “If, no, when Lady Donna wakes up, she’ll want to know he’s alright. I’m the only one who can, right now.”

  
“I’m sure he can take care of himself, dear,” said her mother, not quite understanding. “Come to bed, now, or you’ll be too tired to stay awake tomorrow.”

  
“No, Mama,” said the child-warrior stubbornly. “I have to walk him cool and make sure he gets fed. If I don’t, he could get sick and maybe die. Lady Donna would do it, and she’d expect me to, too. I can sleep later, maybe.”

  
“Then I’ll send Jokan or Moki up to help you,” sighed Jula, unexpectedly proud of her most puzzling child. She had never thought to be impressed by her dedication to the horse. “Then all of you can sleep all day tomorrow."

  
Donna would surely be better by then, the elfin girl told herself, using a piece of grass string to lead the big horse around. Her sister and cousin, Jokan, found her, and pestered her into telling them the whole story. In return, Tim was walked, fed and thoroughly brushed, and even his tack was carried to Zarala’s house in case of rain. The three fell asleep eventually, dreaming of valiant horses, fearless women, and impossible odds somehow overcome. Jula left them where they had wound down, hoping that they could get some rest. No one else would, she was certain.

  
Indeed, only Donna slept the entire night, moving not at all, even during the three healer’s extremely detailed examinations. Forced to wait outside with Guran, the Phantom swiftly and precisely cared for Hero, his grim look inviting no conversation as he did so. Having used up ten minutes with this occupation, the Ghost Who Walks paced like a caged tiger outside the room, as if bent on wearing a track in the sandstone floor. By the time they finally emerged, he had convinced himself of the worst.

  
“Is she,” he began, his throat closing up on the final word, unable to imagine his vibrant, able Donna dead.

  
“Calm yourself, young Phantom,” soothed Dandoli, his wise eyes seeing the worry and self-recrimination behind the mask. “She will be fine, in time. There is no permanent damage evident.”

  
“A severe concussion, jah,” Doctor Dorn added, in no way disrespectful of the old shaman, with whom he had discussed treatments often. “But it should not be long until she has recovered.”

  
“A few days in bed, resting,” Muzi told him, her bead and shell ornaments clicking together at her movements. “Or in the shade, resting, during the day, perhaps. No exertion at all, even riding her horse.”

  
“The way she loves that horse,” commented a relieved Guran, as the Phantom considered throwing the trio out of his way and rushing in to see her, “that might be bad for her. More exertion in not riding the horse.”

  
“Can I see her?” he asked finally, mastering his urge and his voice. “Is she awake?”

  
“Yes, you may see her,” said Dandoli, the senior of the trio. “No, she is not awake. It may be hours, yet, before she wakes. As late as noon, perhaps.”

  
“She may even be a little confused,” added Muzi, “or have temporary amnesia, either of the injury or of other things. She will get over it, though, almost certainly.”

  
“There is no fever,” added Dorn, amused by this legend’s very human reactions, “nor shock. Her vital signs are good, and there is no swelling of the brain or blood inside the cranium. I definitely approve of that helmet she wears. May I see it?”

  
“It’s with Rumal and his warriors,” said the anxious Phantom, much reassured. “You can probably get it from him when he returns. Is there anything I should do, or not do?”

  
“Young Phantom, you leave me such an opening!” laughed Muzi. “No stress or exertion, after she wakes, for at least two days. She might like a bath, being carried won’t hurt her unless you drop her. Oh, and she’s not pregnant, yet.”

  
Without another word, the costumed giant vanished into the bedroom, the heavy curtain falling behind him with some finality. The others left, with Guran, to be set upon by the frothing Bandar, who were far more relieved than the Phantom had been. Jula had to tell what she had heard from Zarala, and all in all, the majority of the adults and some of the children were up until early morning.

  
While they discussed her, Donna lay motionless but for her steady breathing. Her body lay atop the massive bed where he had lain her hours before, it seemed. Her clothes had been removed, however, and a white sheet covered her to the shoulders. A nest of pillows had been created to keep her head turned to her left, so that the bandaged right occipital area had no pressure on it. While he sat at her side, he replayed the possible side effects listed by Muzi. Amnesia, he thought with some fear.

  
What if she forgets me? he worried, then got a grip on himself. I’ll just have to propose again, he told himself firmly. Amnesia doesn’t change personality, after all. I think. After watching her for over an hour, he rose in silent grace and felt her brow for fever with a feathery touch. Not only was she unfevered, she was cold. He cursed himself for an imbecile, realizing that she needed to be kept warmer in the cool depths of the Skull Cave. He carefully gathered her up into his arms, sheet and all, and carried her down the passage to the bath.

  
Though he washed her in the warm water, careful to keep her head wound and hair dry, she never stirred. Her limp, helpless body aroused his deepest urge to shelter and protect her, and guilt at not having done so. For some time after she was clean, he stayed in the warm, supporting pool, holding her close and caressing her, the blond head on his shoulder.

  
Her hair, he reflected as he dried her body and his own, was not really blond so much as a light brown. It had copper highlights, and a fringe of wispy yellow-white beneath at the nape of her neck. He supposed it could be much lighter if she was out in the sun without a hat more often. He had also noticed that she had a slightly darker skin tone than he remembered. Had she been swimming or sunning herself?

  
This time, when he laid her carefully on the bed, he set her on the cool, clean sheets, and covered her with the light blankets, sheet and comforter. He fell asleep watching her breathe, slow, deep, softly hypnotic. Guran, unable to sleep very late, peeked in to see them so and left, arousing no one but Devil on his rounds. The big wolf had come loping in after the tribe had finally gone back to sleep. Laying in the entryway, he was a formidable guardian, had anyone an idea of trespassing.

  
The wolf had been left behind when word of the Mussanga incursion had reached the Phantom, returning from the capital. More distance had separated the wolf from his master when the drums told the masked giant of his fiancée’s intentions. Though swift, Devil could not match Hero in a hurry, so he had trailed his master home, passing the Bandar, who had camped for the night, without stopping.

  
Donna awoke with a ferocious headache, not quite able to think why. She lay with her eyes blinking in the too-bright light, not quite focused. She tried to roll over on her side, toward the purple shape nearby, but her body only twitched in response. Had she gotten drunk, she wondered, having vivid memories of declaring once to be enough. Then her eyes came into focus, adjusting to the light, and she saw who sat asleep in the chair near the bed. Memories rushed back and she tried to call his name, but only a sort of hoarse croak came from her mouth.

  
He came awake at that, and knelt anxiously beside her, seeing the look of recognition with relief. She tried to say his name again, but only her breath came from between her lips. She began to be a bit frightened, and he reached out to trace her cheek with a gentle caress. She relaxed a little, eyes fixed on his, a shy little smile on her face.

  
“How do you feel, Donna, dearest?” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You had us all very worried, you know. The doctors all say you’ll be fine, soon, so don’t try to talk unless you feel strong enough.”

  
She lay quietly for a few minutes, and he could see her gathering her strength and her determination. Strangely, she looked almost sad, he thought, and waited patiently, wishing he could give her some of his own strength.

  
“Forgive me,” she finally said, whispered and faint, and half of it lip-read by her lover. “Please, Kit.”

  
“Forgive you, darling?” he asked in surprise. “Whatever for? Getting hurt? Worrying the whole tribe, aging me ten years?”

  
“Promised, stay,” he made out, as she reminded him, her voice a little stronger. “Went.”

  
“Well, of course you went, my lady,” he told her gently, smiling down at her in joy that she had such a trivial worry on her blessedly whole mind. “You had to, didn’t you? I would have done the same. It should be I who ask you for absolution, dear. If I’d taken a shorter route, you wouldn’t have been hurt at all. You can’t imagine how badly I’ve felt all night, wondering if you’d be alright, if you’d know me, if you’d even wake up. Oh, Donna, I was terrified I’d seen you killed.”

  
“Had helmet on,” she managed, a faint grin to her pale face. “Good thing.”

  
“So Zarala said,” he told her, choking on his emotional throat. “You can bet she won’t ever forget, either. How do you feel?”

  
“Hang over,” said Donna, pain flickering in her eyes. “Can’t move. Sore, thirsty, hungry. Alive.”

  
“Definitely the main point,” he agreed. “Let me ask you a few questions, then I’ll tell you what the three doctors said about your condition, and what happened after you got, uh, hungover. Okay?” She smiled a small, weak grin of agreement, and he began.

  
“Do you remember everything?” he asked, keeping the worry from his voice with difficulty. “Fighting dozens of Mussanga tribesmen by yourself?”

  
“Yes,” she managed, then added, “Tim.”

  
“Well, yes,” he admitted, feeling his heart fill with relief and love. “Tim was helping. Their leader jumped up on Tim behind you and tried to brain you. That’s when I got there. Tim went up and both of you fell off. Tim made a very messy end of your would-be killer, by the way. The remaining cannibals thought better of attacking Tim, Hero and me when the Bandar showed up. Zarala, Mandy and Lieutenant Hayakawa of the Jungle Patrol also came back. As I told you before, Mandy didn’t even ask if you were alive, let alone try to help. Even when she gave me part of her shirt to bandage your head with, it was because Zarala insisted. The three of them rode Tim back, Hero and I carried you. Rumal and his men are bringing back your helmet and spear, and Zarala took care of Tim. Clear?”

  
“Yes,” sighed Donna, wishing he would hold her, or at least kiss her. Of course Mandy hadn’t asked that, she thought mildly. The pilot would have known from what her lover was doing, and helping, or trying, would have been rejected anyway. “All okay?”

  
“Yes, I think so,” he said, smiling at her concern, as opposed to what he saw as the pilot’s indifference. “Tim no doubt has worried all night, and Zarala, too, but they all looked fine, last I saw them. Oh, Mandy and the lieutenant were rather ragged and bruised, but not hurt. Now, about you.”

  
“Doctor Dorn, Dandoli and Muzi all insist that you’ll be fine in a few days,” he told her, wondering if kissing her would cause ‘exertion’ on her part. “You’re not to so much as walk to the bathroom by yourself for at least two days, according to them. I’m to carry you, if you want to go anywhere, alright? I gave you a bath and put you to bed some hours ago, and worried about you waking up not remembering me, the battle, even Tim. I kept thinking: what if you’d forgotten that I love you?”

  
“Oh, Kit,” she sighed, tears sliding down one cheek, but pooling on the right side of the bridge of her nose. “I love you. Kiss me. Hold me.”

  
“Darling,” he said, choking slightly on the word, and bending to brush her forehead with his lips. “You have to rest. How can you do that with me holding you?”

  
“Better,” she insisted firmly. “Water?”

  
“I’ll get you some, my lady,” he said, standing up in one smooth motion, a dark, purple tower of strength to her eyes. Donna’s heart beat faster, and pumped love of him through her whole body. She wished he would just come to bed and make love to her, although she realized she would be no fun as a partner. Almost like making love to an unconscious body, she figured. He returned with a cup of water and a pitcher, which he set on the flat-topped chest near the bed.

  
Careful to be gentle, he pulled back the covers and gathered her up in his arms. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, holding her limp, warm body in his lap. He let her head rest on his shoulder, slightly tilted back, and kissed her parted lips with full attention. Her tongue stroked his weakly, reassuring him of her desire, if not her health. He pulled back and saw her eyes closed as if exhausted or pleased. Kit held the cup to her lips and let a tiny trickle of water into her mouth, a sip at a time. Weak as she was, more might choke her. She swallowed convulsively, or so it seemed after her immobility, but with steady determination.

  
“A little at a time, Donna, dear,” he told her, putting the cup down. “After all that, I’d hate to have you drown in my arms.”

  
“’M a Kiwi,” she whispered, eyes still closed, but her voice better. “Don’t _drown_. Eaten b’sharks, maybe.”

  
“Donna, don’t even joke about that,” he begged, kissing her gently and holding her close to him, feeling her skin cooling. “You should go back to bed and sleep, dear. You’ll get a chill this way, or stiffen up. Hardly heroic, you know, but possible, as you pointed out to me, once. Let me put you back to bed and I’ll go tell everyone you’re okay.”

  
“No!” she gasped, twitching in protest as he laid her back on the sheets. “Don’t go.”

  
“I’ll be right back, darling,” he told her, covering her up again, but this time with her laying on her left side. “And I’ll bring you some fruit juice and a straw. How does mango and guava sound?”

  
“Good,” she admitted, her eyes never leaving him. “Then stay?”

  
“Donna, I have no intention of being further away than the village for the rest of the week,” he assured her. “I promise I’ll stay here, even if Mussanga cannibals capture Mandy Baker again. If I have to leave, I’ll have someone else watch you, and call me if you need me.”

  
“’Kay,” she muttered, her eyes telling him how desperate she was for his presence, his touch, his strength. He felt fully as invincible as the jungle folk thought him, knowing how much she needed him, wanted him. He could almost forget his guilt and failure to guard her from harm. He moved swiftly, his heart lighter than it had been for many hours.

  
“Guran!” he exclaimed, seeing his old friend first, cleaning his saddle, Zarala doing the same with Donna’s. “Zarala, she’s awake, she’ll be alright. Do we have any juice for her to drink? And a straw?”

  
“I’ll get it!” yelped the previously listless Zarala. Dropping her rag, she seemed to vanish, she moved so fast. Her shrill voice was dimly heard outside on the grassy lawn announcing the news.

  
“And she is not in any difficulty?” asked Guran, much more relieved than he had expected to be. “She remembers everything?”

  
“Her mind and memory are fine,” he said, knowing from his questions that Guran had been almost as worried as he by Muzi’s words. “She’s very weak, says she feels as if she has a hangover. I don’t think she can eat, yet.”

  
“Is she able to have visitors?” asked the Chief, his cleaning rag across the black saddle. “Zarala has waited here since dawn, departing only to comfort the horse. Lady Donna’s horse loiters about the Cave as if he might try to sneak in, like a naughty child.”

  
“We’ll see how she is a little later,” the Phantom said, thinking about it. “I don’t think she’s up to it quite yet.”

  
“Neither will you be, if you don’t get some food and rest,” warned the older man kindly. “You must be strong for her, so take care of yourself, as well as her.”

  
“I’ll try, old friend,” sighed the Phantom, while Devil whined at him from his favorite spot, a bench used to light one of the torches. “Stay, Devil, good boy. Sorry I left you behind, but if I’d waited for you, I’d really have been too late.”

  
“I’ll have the child bring you something a bit later, then,” chuckled the Chief, hearing Zarala’s feet outside.

  
“Here,” said the panting girl, sliding to a halt by the taller man. “Mango-guava, mother says it is. Is that alright?”

  
“Perfect, Zarala,” the Phantom told her, accepting the corked gourd and hollow reed held up to him. “I’m afraid you can’t see her quite yet, but only because I’m trying to get her to go to sleep, to build her strength. Later today, I’m sure she’ll want to see you. Tim, too, probably, but he’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  
“Thank you, O Ghost Who Walks,” said Zarala humbly. “I will wait. Just ask, if she needs anything.”

  
“I will, little warrior,” he said with a smile, and went back to Donna, his step far lighter than the last time he had walked that passage. He went to her side, kneeling so that they could see each other’s face easily, and she needn’t speak too loudly.

  
“Zarala brought some of Jula’s favorite mix,” he told her softly, seeing her eyes refocus on him. "I think you can drink it laying like that, dear, if we’re careful. Ready?”

  
He poured a little of the yellow-orange liquid into the cup he’d used for water, put the straw in it and held it to her lips. She managed to drink it all, and seemed stronger almost immediately.

  
“Good girl, Donna,” he said encouragingly, happier than he had ever imagined he could be over someone drinking a cup of juice. “Do you want more?”

  
“First,” she whispered, stronger than before, “tell me about the trip to Mawitaan. Good?”

  
“Are you sure you want to hear this?” he asked, kissing her nose. “It’s sort of a long story.”

  
“Am I going anywhere?” she asked with a wry smile.

  
“Okay, you asked,” he told her, settling into that on-his-heels seat he used so often. “I got to the Palace to find it heavily guarded. A diplomatic, head-of-state visit, I found out. I was in a hurry, so I, uh, bypassed security. Turned out Lamanda was delighted to see me, and so was his guest. I sort of met the President of Ivory-Lana a few years ago, Mtewa Gorunda, and the two of them had put out the story that it was some sort of ‘summit’ meeting. What they were actually doing was trying to find out about the wedding.”

  
“Lamanda had heard from Chief Lagana about us and had been using his contacts to find out about you, the wedding, anything he could. He’d called President Gorunda and the two of them were trying to figure out how to get invited. The looks on their faces when I showed up were worth the trip,” he told her with a laugh.

  
“So he’ll do it?” asked Donna, feeling better as the sugary juice hit her system.

  
“Well, yes and no,” her lover told her, still smiling, so it couldn’t be so bad. “It seems that both of them are going to do it. I’m not sure how it happened, really. I mentioned the idea and before you could snap your fingers, they were co-writing the ceremony. I don’t know how they’re going to duck their security people long enough to get there, but they didn’t seem worried.”

  
“Is it okay, two?” asked Donna, telling herself it was just a ceremony, she was really already married. “Legal?”

  
“Don’t worry, Donna,” he told her, pouring more juice. “Lamanda will get it documented, though he may have to get creative. Useful with documents, like passports and credentials, to have a president sign them. People decide not to bother you after that.”

  
“Am I here illegally?” she asked, before accepting the straw. “No visa, no customs.”

  
“My useful government friend has already taken care of that,” the Phantom told her, watching her drink. “Must have checked Sam’s flight plan, since the Baker’s wouldn’t have said anything, and gotten in touch with New Zealand, and now you have a new visa, and passport, with all the appropriate things done. I did have to ask him to do it for Tim, as well, but he promised to bring the paperwork with him.”

  
“My hero,” smiled Donna, as he took the empty cup back again. “Now if you’ll just cuddle up against my back, I’ll be perfectly happy. That juice makes me feel much better, Kit. Thank you.”

  
“How long since you’ve eaten, my lady?” he asked, knowing it was nearly noon. “Finish it and go to sleep. When you wake up, we’ll have real food ready for you.”

  
“Had some fruit and bread on the tunnel road,” she said, trying to move her hands and feet. “Why am I so weak? Blood loss?”

  
“No, you didn’t loose that much, although it was far more than I thought you should be loosing!” he told her, filling the cup with the last of the juice. “I think your nerves are being interfered with by the swelling around the injury. The Three Musketeers didn’t help by stretching your neck over to one side after the fact. Inflamed nerves, maybe, but everything works, right?”

  
“Yes, I think so,” she said, and with some effort, winked at him. “But I’d like a test run of a certain very personal area, if you don’t mind. Can’t tell without a volunteer from the audience.”

  
“Not yet, you vixen,” he told her, holding the straw for her. “What does it take to get your mind off of sex?”

  
She stopped halfway through and raised an eyebrow at him, as if surprised that he didn’t already know.

  
“Horses,” she said, and drank the rest of the juice.

  
“Of course,” he laughed, watching her drink. “I don’t know how I forgot.”

  
“You’re tired, too,” she said perceptively, after she had finished. “Go get something to eat, dear. One of us needs to be in shape for your sister. Doesn’t look as if it will be me.”

  
“You’ll get better soon, darling,” he told her, rising to his feet smoothly. “I’ll have someone stay with you if I leave, but for now, I’m happy to just watch you. And I’ve slept a few hours this morning.”

  
“Out of how many days?” she asked as he settled back into the chair. “You had better sleep in the same bed as me tonight, lover, or you’ll start looking like a ghost for real. And it’ll make me feel better to have you close.”

  
“I’ll be close, darling Donna,” he told her, his voice that soothing, caressing purr she so loved to hear. “Go to sleep, now, I’ll be right here. The Wambesi and the Llongo would have been proud of you, you know. Their shamans were right in Llongo, you are a warrior out of legend. Aboma had nothing on you. And I don’t doubt that the Chief of Wambesi will hear about the way you used his gift. Old Chief Mbele will be sure to find out and then tell the other Chiefs that it was his gift you used.”

  
“I’m sorry I had to kill them,” she whispered, eyes closing. “But they’d almost got to the torture part with Mandy. I tried to just scare the first lot, but I had to kill them. Tim’s been taking lessons from Hero, you know.”

  
“That’s alright, dear,” he told her, his voice soft and soothing, a low rumble, like a purring tiger. “I might have had to kill a few, too. The Mussanga have always been a stubborn tribe.”

  
“Oh,” she sighed, and soon he saw that she slept, her even breathing assuring him as he watched. He waited for a little while to make sure, enjoying the sight of her, alive and fairly well, then silently left, juice gourd in hand. The first person he saw was the lurking Zarala, still obsessively cleaning Donna’s tack. He beckoned her to him with a smile, instantly obeyed.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery and a dressage coach

“I know you’re worried, Zarala,” he told her quietly. “But she’ll be fine. She’s sleeping now, so you can go in and watch her for me. Don’t do anything unless she wakes up, alright?”

  
“Yes, Phantom,” she said eagerly. “What do I do if she does wake up?”

  
“Come get me right away,” he said seriously. “I’ll be outside with Mandy and the Patrolman. Then I’ll send someone else in and you can come out and tell me your version of what happened. Okay?”

  
“Yes, o Ghost Who Walks,” she agreed. “I will be glad to do so. Thank you.”

  
He watched her dart down the corridor in silence, her bare feet and bright shift making no noise as she slid inside the curtain. He knew that devoted look, he thought with some confidence. Donna’s acolyte was on the job.

  
Outside, he was soon able to find the two saddle-sore former prisoners. Or, as Hayakawa pointed out, no-saddle-sore, in his case. He had the awed Patrolman tell his story first, the three of them sitting in the shade of the suli trees, half the village gathered around them in curiosity.

  
“Uh, well, I’d just finished talking to the Oogaan Chief about a man we had in custody,” the slight oriental told his mysterious host nervously. “The prisoner we were holding had claimed to be subject to the tribal laws, but the Chief and his son told me that he’d been exiled and they didn’t want him back. I was riding along with my guide, a Wambesi man by the name of Umbotu, and the Mussanga caught us. They ate my horse, mostly, and Umbotu said they were going to eat us, eventually.”

  
“An annoying custom,” commented the Phantom as he paused. “Go on.”

  
“Annoying!” he exclaimed. “I’ll say. Well, we were their prisoners for three or four days, and even though we were slated for someone’s table, all most of the jungle natives could talk of was some big wedding coming up. Yours, sir?”

  
“Yes,” said the giant in purple, the masked face betraying nothing to the Patrolman. “Continue.”

  
“Uh, congratulations,” stammered the young lieutenant. “Anyway, I heard a plane come down near us, and a few hours later, the main group dragged Mandy Baker into camp. She accounted for her share of them, but they decided to eat her first, since she was so much trouble. They left about a fourth of their party to get dinner started, and went off to hunt some more.”

  
The Phantom reflected privately that in their position, he would have elected to eat Mandy first, as well. Her martial arts skills would not have been enough to save her from that many Mussanga hunters, but it would have been a very painful capture for them.

  
“They spent some time preparing for the, uh, dinner, and we were all set to see Mandy get her comeuppance, as my mother used to say, when the cavalry arrived. Literally. They were magnificent! I’ve never seen such horsemanship. There was a scream of some kind, a crash of brush, and a huge bay horse with a woman on him came thundering into the subchief, just as he was about to start cutting Mandy up. It was like that German opera about the warrior woman.”

  
“Die Valkyrie,” supplied the Phantom and two or three of the Bandar.

  
“Yes, like a valkyrie,” agreed Hayakawa. “She cut Mandy free somehow on her first pass, and yelled at her to run, then threw her spear across the clearing and cut the neck rope we were all tied with. I cut my hands free, but by the time I was armed, the two girls, uh, women, and the horse, were the only live things in the clearing.”

  
“Is that all?” he asked calmly. The Phantom knew the spear throw had been luck, for Donna could not have perfected her aim in just the few days he had been gone. The Bandar around them had hung on every word, rapt at Donna’s adventure. A woman fit for their big friend, all agreed.

  
“No, the little girl who rode the big horse with us came out of the trees and told the lady with the sword that there were more Mussanga, and probably on their way back to our clearing right then. Our valkyrie told the little girl, Zarala, to lead us to safety, and ordered us to follow her. She stayed, she and that ferocious horse. I thought she’d just delay them a little, then follow us, but when a running bunch of pygmy warriors met us, we heard her scream again. The men ran past us and we turned and followed them. The rest you know.”

  
“Yes,” he agreed, trying not to see again the meant-to-be-fatal blow. He suspected he would see it often enough in his nightmares. “Mandy?”

  
“What he said,” she shrugged, “except for how I got there. Electrical problem with my engine made me set down inside the reef at Catch Devil Beach, got a pontoon ripped open on a rock or something, and ended up on the beach. I guess those Mussangas thought I looked tasty, in a strictly culinary sense, so they dragged me off to their little barbecue. I got off one mayday, but I didn’t figure anyone’d heard it.”

  
“Evidently Donna did,” the big man said. “Lucky for you. Not so lucky for her.”

  
“If there were something seriously wrong with her,” Mandy pointed out, “you wouldn’t be talking to us. Wedding still on?” At his reluctant nod, she smiled and said with satisfaction, “the defense rests.”

  
“I have got to get rid of you,” he muttered, making the dark-haired girl grin wider. “Have you called your father, yet?”

  
“Wouldn’t do any good, Phantom,” she told him, not at all put out. “Dad won’t be back for two more days, and no one else at Baker Air is rated to fly the other duck. Might get the Patrol to come and rescue their little lost sheep, though. Won’t get my plane fixed any faster.”

  
“I’m afraid we don’t have any air vehicle with the range needed, and the landing ability,” apologized the lieutenant. “Our sea plane is hors d’combat from a slight difference of opinion with some drug smugglers. The helicopter is strictly short range. If someone could loan me a gun and get me as far as the Wambesi, I’ll be on my way. I must tell you, however, that despite the reputation that some Japanese built for jungle savvy during the war, I was born in Fresno, California, USA, and can’t tell one direction from the other without a compass. I only chose Wambesi because I can get a guide there.”

  
“It seems we’re stuck with you two for a while,” stated the masked giant, rising to his feet. “Mandy, if you cause trouble, I’m going to take you to the nearest Mussanga village and give you to them, with a jar of garlic to cook you with! Donna needs rest, and that’s what she’s going to get. Clear?”

  
“Aye, aye, sir,” responded Mandy, saluting with comic opera panache. “I always try to indulge people who’ve saved me from a gruesome death. Miss Tamaru can assign me a book report or something.”

  
“And me, sir?” asked the nissei Patrolman respectfully. “Can I do anything to help the, um, bride-to-be?”

  
“Yes,” said the Phantom, his voice an instrument of command. “Stick to Mandy Baker like glue and try to minimize any trouble that comes looking for her.”

  
“Yessir!” replied the young Patrolman, stiffening into a salute posture even while sitting on the grass before the Skull Throne. The big man in the odd costume had never raised his voice, but the officer felt no further question in his mind about the identity of the Patrol’s unknown Commander. If this man ordered, you obeyed, no matter how unreasonable, even impossible, those orders might be. As far as Shunji Hayakawa was concerned, his ultimate superior officer had just given orders. He would do his best. The masked face turned to a pygmy woman in a yellow and blue sarong.

  
“Jula,” said the Phantom in Bandarese, “Donna will need soup or broth of some kind when she awakens. The juice was a great help, by the way. Thank you. I think one of the reasons she was so weak was that she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for more than a day.”

  
“And you last ate when?” demanded Jula in the strict mother voice she used on Donna, and indeed her own children. “And what?”

  
“I don’t remember,” he admitted. “I don’t even feel as if I can.”

  
“Go back to Lady Donna,” ordered the headwoman with a wave of her tiny hand. “I will bring you food and drink, for both of you. And you will eat.”

  
“Thank you, Jula,” he said in gratitude, feeling out his vitality, what was his energy or chi. It was indeed very low, having been used up at a great rate the past two days. Food, drink, sleep and Donna’s recovery would all help restore him, and his spirit. He walked with a tigerish stride back into the Skull Cave, wondering if this was how Donna had felt when he had been, as she put it, ‘technically dead.’

  
He made a brief call on the radio, in spite of Mandy’s words, informing the voice that answered at the Baker Air Freight hanger that Mandy needed her father’s assistance. He gave no details, but the man on the other end of the radio call did not seem at all surprised.

  
“What now?” asked the voice, almost bored. “Fire, volcanic eruption, plague?”

  
“A pontoon needs repair and there’s some sort of electrical problem with the engines,” the Phantom said, smiling. “I’d like to get rid of her before the other things happen, though.”

  
“Don’t blame you,” sighed the other man. “It’s been flat boring ‘round here without her. Kind of a nice change. I’ll see Sam gets the message, Walker. Meantime, good luck, you’ll likely need it.”

  
“Don’t I know it,” replied the Phantom, signing off. He and Mandy both knew his threat to toss her back to the Mussanga was hollow, but he almost wished it weren’t. He hoped the young lieutenant was up to the monumental task he had just undertaken. Have to see that he gets promoted if he manages it, thought Kit.

  
He moved silently down the passage to his bedroom, their bedroom, Devil at his heels. The wolf made more noise than he did on the sandstone floor, claws clicking, telling Zarala that she was no longer alone. She slid out of the same massive chair the Phantom had been using to watch the patient, and padded over to him, where the two stood near the door. The Phantom gestured silent orders to Devil, who went to Donna’s side and lay down, head alert, watching them leave.

  
Outside, the heavy, sound-deadening curtain closing the sight of her off from them, the two walked out to the entry, where the Phantom set Zarala on a stone bench, still warm from Devil’s body. He squatted comfortably on the floor near her.

  
“Now, Zarala, tell me about the things that happened yesterday,” he asked. “The parts that I don’t know. How did Donna know Mandy was in trouble? How did you get there so fast? How did you end up as I found you?”

  
Concisely, with no attempt to slant the facts as she knew them, the small girl confessed all to the jungle giant. Even her part in the actual killing of most of the cannibals with her arrows. She did paint a glorious, admiring picture of the warrior on horseback, and detailed the fight far more minutely than the Phantom really wanted. The tiny girl had had an excellent, almost unobstructed view of the whole skirmish, at least the first one, and she remembered everything.

  
“Thank you, Zarala,” the Phantom told her at the end. “For helping Donna and for taking care of Tim. Have you exercised him at all today? He should get any stiff muscles stretched out with a little light exercise. You might get him over to Doctor Dorn and have him checked, too. I promise to send someone to get you when Donna’s up to visitors.”

  
“Yes, O Ghost Who Walks,” agreed the tiny warrioress. “Tell Lady Donna I’m taking care of Tim, please?”

  
“I’ll tell her,” he promised, as she skipped away with a far lighter heart than she had come in with. He saw Jula coming, a determined look on her face, Muzi by her side. He knew that look, from long experience, as Guran had much the same look when set on convincing him to do something for his own good. He wondered briefly if it was a family trait, or a Bandar trait.

  
“Muzi, Jula,” he greeted them, standing up politely. “Donna’s still sleeping. Devil’s watching her for me.”

  
“I’ll just take a peek,” said Muzi, going off down the passage. “You eat, young Phantom. You must be strong for her.”

  
Jula wordlessly set out a loaf of bread, two bananas, two mangos, a papaya, a piece of cold meat, some rice and another gourd full of juice. Her brightly colored bag was not empty, either.

  
“Eat,” she commanded. “Leaving the wolf with her, indeed. He can guard, yes, but can he fetch help if there is trouble? Will he know if there is trouble? A whole village full of folk who would sit silent for hours watching her and you choose a wolf. Men!”

  
“Yes,” said Muzi, reappearing as he gulped down the meat and began on the rice. “Devil will not let me touch her. But she looks better. Tell me about when she awoke.”

  
Between mouthfuls he did, worrying about her weakness. Muzi reassured him, saying that it would be gone, probably in a day or so.

  
“This is for her,” Jula told him, putting several sealed gourds on the bench. “These are fruit juice. When she wakes, tell me and I will bring soup.”

  
“Thank you,” he said, grateful. “Thank you both. I’ll call you if she wakes up, Jula, and I’ll send Devil to get you, Muzi, if there’s any problem.”

  
He took the gourds back to the bedroom, leaving the two women to themselves. Jula picked up the remains of his quick meal and shook her head. How did the Phantom line stay as healthy as it did on such eating habits, she asked herself.

  
“He is in love, worried by more than just his lover’s injury,” Muzi chuckled, as they left. “His sister comes, Mandy and her friend are here, the wedding approaches, her horse needs care, he must get rid of Mandy and her friend, and many other things. No wonder he forgets to eat.”

  
“I shall remind him, then,” sighed Jula, remembering how much of Donna’s dress she had yet to do. “I think I have an idea to occupy Mandy Baker with, though. I shall have her come and stand for fittings of her dress. Yes, I will be precise and take long about it. And if she gives me trouble, I shall fill her full of pins!”

  
“A possible solution,” agreed Muzi with a laugh. “I myself was considering an exorcism.”

  
“Hmph,” sniffed Jula. “Demons wouldn’t have that child. Perhaps I shall tell her that I’ve dipped the pins in the arrow poison.”

  
The Phantom set the gourds down on the chest where the water pitcher and the wooden cup still sat, and checked on Donna’s breathing. He kissed her hair gently, not waking her, and settled into the chair, Devil at his feet between them. He soon drowsed off, the three of them sleeping in companionable silence, unaware of the activity outside in the village and the valley.

  
While the two humans and the wolf slept the sleep of exhaustion, Mandy Baker was fitted out for not just one dress, but three. She had glimpsed the sheaf of drawings Jula had shown Donna, and had begged very hard for two others. After she promised to expend every effort to avoid trouble until after the wedding, even if it sought her out, Jula consented. Two were daring designs for evening gowns, which Mandy confided that she meant to wear to several glamorous night clubs she knew in Singapore, Hong Kong and other fancy places.

  
She was safely occupied for the rest of the day, much to Lieutenant Hayakawa’s relief. He was perfectly willing to take boredom in trade for the possibility of failure to obey the Commander’s orders. Knowing that such failure would not be blamed on him did not lessen the Jungle Patrol officer’s determination to do his best. He used his leisure to observe the people of this extraordinary place.

  
The people lived and dressed as one would expect a pygmy tribe to do, but there were glaring differences if one observed, other than their legendary neighbor. For instance, the two children arguing about Aristotle, Socrates, Laozi and Confucious in the click-clack Bandar tongue as they passed by. Or the authoritative Bandar lady with the high fashion design skills. Or the three boys grouped around a book on horses, apparently arguing about how to build something, in a mixture of languages.

  
It was a weird sort of place, he reflected, dominated by the forbidding cave, the fabulous throne of white stone. And by the immortal legend that inhabited that same cavern, he admitted to himself, seeing again in his mind the man who was the legend. The many pygmies, all of whom seemed to speak at least English as a second language, had a strange combination of familiarity and reverence for the Phantom. Doubtless, they had known him all their lives, he mused, though that did not account for their obsession over the immortal’s chosen bride.

  
He decided before long that he would have to heavily edit his report, finding himself somehow reluctant to tell anyone of this utopian society. A small party of hunters returned from the forest, a deer slung from poles between short, nearly naked men. While they passed him on their way through the village, Lt. Hayakawa heard words in English, French and German, apparently having to do with horses. Books were amazingly prevalent, he noticed, which meant that this group of tiny people who lived in primitive houses were not only educated, but literate, apparently all of them, from the oldest woman sitting in the sun, to the children.

  
If he were to tell anyone that, he told himself, he would not be believed, of course, but he didn’t want to ruin the image the poison people had cultivated. In the outer stretches of the jungle, the Bandar were feared, like a dangerous plant or animal would have been. Arouse them and die, respect them and their territory and they would not bother you. Probably.

  
While the Patrolman philosophized and pondered, Zarala was finding that she had become very popular with the other children. The story of her ride and support of the Lady Donna’s rescue had spread rapidly, and she had to tell the story twice. Since it was done while virtually every child of both villages was brushing whatever part of Tim they could reach, it was a bit broken up. The part they all liked best was the headlong charge into a dozen cannibals, and they reenacted it among themselves according to Zarala’s memory. With some self-consciousness, the tiny girl, helmet firmly on her head, bridled the big bay and climbed to his neck alone.

  
Never having ridden the horse alone before, Zarala took a firm grip on the black mane and gave the command as soon as all the others were far enough away. Tim surged to his feet, the girl’s weight hardly noticed, but her touch on the reins familiar. Having been informed of the plan, the rest of the group began running toward Doctor Dorn’s residence, and Tim, obedient, walked briskly after them. He was actually rather enjoying the attention he was getting, and had ceased to ‘lurk,’ as Chief Guran said. He still looked toward the cave mouth if anyone went in or out, but he had accepted Donna’s absence, to some extent.  
The shouting children got the German’s attention as he worked in his garden, full of medicinal herbs and plants. He smiled as he saw the tiny girl on the bay thoroughbred coming toward him, and went to greet them.

  
“Good afternoon, Zarala,” he said, bowing in elaborate courtesy, making the children giggle. “What can I do for you today? Or for your brave horse?”

  
“The Ghost Who Walks wants me to ask you to see if Tim is alright after the last day or so,” the girl told him, halting the big bay with a touch. “Lady Donna woke up, but she can’t look at him herself, yet, since she went back to sleep. His legs look alright to me, Doctor Dorn, but I don’t know what to look for if there were something wrong.”

  
“Well, the first rule of equine vet work, _liebchen_ ,” the doctor told her cheerfully, “is that if you look hard enough, you can find something wrong. After the stories I haf heard, and the way Fraulein Donna came back, I would not be surprised if he were a little stiff, or even had strained something. But his walk looked _sehr gut_ to me. Did it feel normal to you?”

  
“Yes,” said Zarala slowly, thinking about it. “But we only walked.”

  
“A horse’s gaits are best felt from his back, and best appreciated from the ground,” the tall German told her. “Can you ride him bareback at the trot, _mein kinder_?”

  
“Yes,” admitted Zarala reluctantly. “But not very well, yet.”

  
“Well, try a trot,” the vet urged. “I will tell you what I can. If you have difficulty, I have some skill in the art, and can try his paces for stiffness.”

  
“Right,” said Zarala, nerving herself up for her first solo exhibition. “Where shall I do it?”

  
“Up and down the pathway here will do,” the doctor said, admiring her courage. “Just as far as Nolani’s house and back.”

  
Bouncing on the patient bay’s back, one fist in the mane, the other on the reins, Zarala found a few sore spots she hadn’t known about on herself. Tim, however, showed no sign of lameness to the experienced eye of Dr. Dorn. The children all appreciated her skill with shrieks of encouragement, making Tim show off with his tiny rider.

  
“I had no idea you were such an accomplished rider, _liebchen_ ,” the vet told Zarala, his smile wide beneath his white straw hat. “The piaffe and passage are quite advanced skills. And you told me you cannot trot well, jah?”

  
“That wasn’t me,” protested the girl mildly, pleased at such a compliment. “Tim knows all that dressage stuff, not me.”

  
“ _Nicht wahr_?” said the European thoughtfully. “Do you think the Lady Donna would mind if I tried his paces, Zarala? Once I was a fairly good dressage student, though sadly out of practice now.”

  
“Well,” said Zarala reluctantly, torn between the desire to show Tim off, and the desire to jealously guard him for her own and Donna’s exclusive possession. She reflected that that was selfish of her, and where would she be if Lady Donna had felt that way? “As long as he’s not tired or sore from yesterday. Please don’t make him sweat, Doctor Dorn, he really deserves the day off.”

  
“On my honor as a member of the German Dressage Federation,” swore the vet, his right hand in the air, still dirty from his gardening. “Ach, let me clean my hands off first. Dirt is hard to get off of such reins as those.”

  
He plunged his hands into a small water bucket, rinsed them vigorously, and wiped them off on his already less-than-clean shirt. Tiny Zarala had slid from Tim’s back and was trying to keep him from sampling the medicinal garden.

  
“ _Nein, nein_ , Herr Tim,” scolded the German vet softly, taking the reins. “ _Nicht gut fur sie_.”

  
“All of you must promise,” he said the watching children, shaking a finger at them. “Promise not to laugh at me. It has been years since I haf ridden a fine tall horse like this one. I will look foolish enough in shorts, I shall look like a clown when I get on!”

  
Thus prepared, all the children shrieked with laughter when he ‘mounted,’ scrambling up the side of the patient bay as if scaling a mountain. Having a reputation among the children as a funny fellow made his job as a doctor easier, so Gunther Dorn exaggerated a little, but once on he became quite elegant. The bay was well-trained, he found, and easy gaited, and seemed to have no difficulty in any movements. The doctor asked the gelding for a series of trotting movements, circles and lines, and shortly pronounced him fine. He amused the children again with a comical dismount, and reinstalled Zarala on the broad back.

  
“He is a fine horse, _liebchen_ ,” he told her kindly. “You should feed him some grain today, and maybe bathe him, but he is in very good shape for a first-time war-horse. His back is a bit sore here, but that is due to the Jungle Patrolman riding over his kidneys, I believe. That will pass, probably by tomorrow. And go easy on the fruit treats, sometimes too many papayas will make their stomachs react badly. I think he is a very nice horse, Zarala, and I’ll come over tonight and check on his rider, jah?"

  
“Yes, Doctor Dorn,” said Zarala, pleased that Tim was alright. “Thank you very much.”

  
“It was a pleasure,” the doctor assured her as she turned the gelding to go. “ _Auf wiedersehen_.”

  
The children had a very good time that afternoon, making Tim look pretty. His tail was combed and brushed and braided, his mane and forelock as well. His coat gleamed from all the brushing, his hooves were practically polished. He bore it all with patience and obedience, as long as Zarala was there. It was all very pleasant, thought the tiny girl, except that Lady Donna was not there.


	29. Chapter 29

Donna awoke in the early evening, her stomach growling hungrily. She saw her lover asleep in his chair beside her, with Devil at his feet and smiled. She felt a great deal better, she decided, moving her toes a bit. She thought about her head, but it didn’t seem to ache as much, or her neck.

  
“Kit?” she whispered, almost reluctant to wake him, but her need was growing urgent. He came instantly awake, Devil on his feet, too, whining. “Kit, I need to go. Would you please help me?”

  
His strong arms, and warm, caring heart, made her happy, and rather than put her back into bed, he wrapped her in a soft blanket and held her in his lap in the big chair. With her head resting on his shoulder, she sighed in contentment. Then her belly growled again.

  
“Devil,” he said quietly, his voice vibrating pleasantly through her body, “go get Jula, boy. Jula.”

  
The wolf ran out of the room, leaving them momentarily alone. Donna felt his warm breath in her hair, and smiled to herself, feeling safe.

  
“He’ll let Jula know you’re awake, darling,” the Phantom told her, holding her pliant, relaxed body carefully. “She’ll bring soup for you to eat. Or drink. How does your head feel now?”

  
“Lots better,” she told him, her own voice now more than a whisper, yet still soft, quiet. “Stronger, too. Might be able to eat something, but chewing would be ‘bit hard.”

  
She chuckled weakly at her pun, and he felt joy bloom in his heart at the sound. He hugged her with cautious strength, careful of her, but she felt his emotion and kissed his chin. He moved her slightly and kissed her back, full on her parted lips, and felt her desire, unequal to her strength.

  
“Ah, Kit,” she sighed as their lips parted company after a long while. “Lovely position, wonderful opportunity, and I can’t follow through. Story of my life. God, how I love you. Did you eat?”

  
“I ate, darling,” he told her gently, wanting to shield her from the world, never let her be hurt again. “Jula insisted. Zarala is going to take Tim down to Dr. Dorn for a check up, and I assigned the young Patrol Lieutenant to keep Mandy out of trouble. I have no idea if that went well or not, since I’ve been asleep in here with you most of the time. I’d have heard from someone, I think, if there was anything wrong.”

  
“Of course we would not have told you, young Phantom,” said Jula, entering with Zarala at her heels, both carrying trays of food. “We would have taken care of things ourselves so that you could sleep. But there has been no trouble.”

  
“No trouble?” he repeated in mild surprise. “Mandy Baker was chained to a tree or something?”

  
“No, she was being fitted for dresses, three of them,” said Jula, setting one tray on the bed, the other, taken from Zarala, placed on the convenient chest. Donna wondered fleetingly what was in the dark old wooden box, then focused on the food. “The young man sat outside and watched people and thought all afternoon. They ate well tonight, and are listening now to Old Man Moze tell the stories of Aboma, the Warrior Queen. By the time he’s finished, they will be, too.”

  
The satisfaction in Jula’s voice was well-deserved, reflected the Phantom. Jula must have worked all day beguiling Mandy, then cooked at least some food, and now had brought them dinner. Zarala, silent shadow to her mother, stood where she could see Donna’s face. The tiny girl was much relieved to have Donna smile at her and wink. Jula regarded the lovers’ position with hands on her hips, dissatisfaction on her face.

  
“You must put the Lady Donna back to bed,” said the headwoman firmly, only just short of a command. “You cannot feed her with only your left hand, and you cannot feed yourself. How will you pour, or cut your meat? If we put all those pillows up against the headboard, she can sit comfortably, and not choke on her food.”

  
Forced to agree with the pygmy woman’s analysis, the Phantom carefully laid Donna on the bed, leaving her wrapped against the chill of the cavern. Donna argued that she could feed herself, but her hands trembled too much to satisfy anyone else of such a thing. Jula and Zarala would feed Donna, they told the giant, he would need to finish all his own food, or risk the same fate. For some reason, Donna found this threat so funny that it was several minutes before the two Bandar women could begin to feed her without danger of choking her.

  
Donna was fed a warm broth made from a freshly killed jungle fowl, which was closely related to chicken. Rare in New Zealand, Donna considered chicken something of a delicacy, and slurped with a will. Fruit juice followed, and ripe bananas finished the meal, which Donna declared quite satisfying, and tasty, she added. The Phantom ate with silent efficiency, finishing his much larger meal even as Donna swallowed the last bite of fruit.

  
“Now I can go home and get some sleep,” announced Jula in triumph. “I have plans for tomorrow that do not include the Baker child. Others have her day mapped out and will occupy them both. Come, Zarala, you need rest, too. How else can you take proper care of the horse?”

  
“Just a minute, please, Mama,” begged the tiny girl. “I want to ask Lady Donna something. I won’t stay long, I promise.”

  
The older woman sighed, nodded, and left carrying the trays, now empty.

  
“What do you need to know, partner?” asked Donna fondly. “Nothing wrong with Tim, is there?”

  
“No, Lady Donna,” answered the girl, her eyes fixed on the blonde’s face. “But I let Dr. Dorn ride Tim to see if he was stiff. Was that alright? The doctor said he was a member of the German Dressage Federation, and I made him promise not to make Tim sweat. He said he’d come check on you tonight. And I fed him. Oh, his back is a little sore where the Jungle Patrolman rode him, but the doctor says it will go away.”

  
“You have been busy, Zarala,” Donna told her, pleased. “I never expected to find a German dressage rider here. You can let him ride Tim, if he asks, and you don’t have other plans for him. The Germans are some of the best dressage riders in the world, you know, but you are his human for at least another day. And my best friend, and Tim’s. What you say, goes. Right?”

  
“Right!” replied the girl, happy to have done well. “Can you come outside tomorrow? Tim is still worried about you. We can make a hammock for you in the shade.”

  
“I’ll try, dear,” Donna told her with a smile. “I’ve always wanted to try a hammock. But you better make your mother happy. I’ll see you tomorrow, sometime.”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” said Zarala, as she backed toward the doorway. “Sleep well!”

  
Then she was gone, not even the sound of footsteps marking her passage.

  
Donna sighed in contentment within her cocoon. Her horse was well, her friends were alive and unharmed, her lover was close, she was full of good food, and warm, with little pain. Only two things remained to make her world perfect, she informed her lover.

  
“What would they be?” he asked, sitting next to her on the edge of the bed. A throat was cleared from beyond the door curtain. “Who’s there?”

  
“Dr. Dorn,” was the reply. “I’m told that you have a fine filly to be vetted.”

  
Donna giggled as the Phantom shook his head with a grin.

  
“Come in, Doctor,” he sighed, kissing Donna’s forehead. “We were just discussing you.”

  
“I?” asked the German in mild surprise, seeing the intimate position of the two. “Whatever for, Herr Phantom?”

  
“Zarala tells me you are a member of the German Dressage Federation,” said Donna, as the Phantom gave up his place to the doctor, standing instead at the head of her bedside. The doctor unwrapped her from her blanket and had her grip his hand.

  
“Lapsed, I fear,” he told her, gauging the strength of her grip. “I have not ridden or competed in many years. Sehr gut, Brunhilda.”

  
“What level did you ride?” she asked, as he gently probed her head wound. Kit brushed him away with a gesture.

  
“Prix St. George,” he said, as the masked giant silently picked up Donna’s half-naked body so that the German could see her injury better. “Ach, much better, thank you.”

  
“Pretty high level,” she commented into her lover’s neck, weakly putting her arms around him. That was an improvement.

  
“It was my horse, Fraulein McLaren,” he protested mildly, “not I, really. The injury looks good, _mein freunds_. No nausea?”

  
“None,” affirmed Donna, feeling the warm dark silk against her breasts, and the firm, muscular chest beneath it.

  
“Then only rest do you need,” he told her, having removed the bandage. “Although I would be careful in brushing my hair, if I were you. At least another day of rest, I think.”

  
“As planned already,” the Phantom assured him, as the doctor turned to leave. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  
“A pleasure to help, Herr Phantom,” he said, letting the heavy curtain fall behind him, hiding his smile.

  
“Devil,” said the Phantom to the wolf, who had followed the doctor into the room. He had paused out among the feasters to eat a few choice scraps of meat saved for him. “Guard, boy.”

  
The big gray canine whined in answer and went outside, his claws clicking on the sandstone floor.

  
“No more disturbances tonight, dear,” he told her, putting her back down on the bed. He then peeled off his mask, hood and shirt, all in one smooth motion. “Now, you were saying?”

  
“The only two things missing to make me perfectly happy?” she said, watching him strip off his costume completely. “A trip to the loo and you in bed with me, you wonderful man.”

  
“Hmm,” he said, picking her up with that careful strength. “Easily done, Donna, darling.”

  
Soon he slid into bed with her, and felt her hands weakly stroke his thigh, and he felt the desire to make love to her, to please her body as deeply as his heart was pleased with her. Her own desire was evident in her face, her eyes, her kiss.

  
“Donna, you’re hurt,” he protested, after she had asked him to do what he desired. “I might hurt you again. More.”

  
“Don’t make love to my head,” she growled softly, even as his hand stroked her breast. “That’s the only part of me that’s hurt.”

  
“I’m sorry, my lady Donna,” he told her, kissing her carefully. “But, much as I’d like to indulge you, and me, I won’t. I’m pretty sure this comes under the heading of exertion, you see. Muzi said you couldn’t ride Tim, even, so I’m pretty much certain she’d say no to this. Believe me, I’d like to, but it is, as they say, for your own good.”

  
“That’s not what I think would be good for me,” grumbled Donna, who knew in her heart that he was right. “Let me guess, you’re going to tell me it builds character, right?”

  
“It will for me, darling,” he said with a sad smile, brushing her cheek with his lips. “Think how hard it is for me to just hold you while you lay there asking me to do the very thing I want most. I love you madly, darling, brave, sexy, beautiful Donna, but think what will happen to us if you wake up tomorrow in worse shape than you are now! The tribe is perfectly capable of inventing something to get me away from you for several days. And even if you tell her that you asked me to do it, Zarala will likely never speak to me again.”

  
“Alright, lover,” sighed Donna reluctantly, but sensing his resolve. A man in his business would be nothing if not self-willed. “Will you please hold me, though?”

  
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” he chuckled, changing sides so that he lay against her back, his arms around her, her injury nearly under his nose, smelling of ointments. “Are you satisfied with this, my sweet valkyrie?”

  
“Do you really think I’m brave?” she asked, the evidence of his desire pressed deliciously against her backside, as if trying to find entry.

  
“If someone else had single-handedly charged into three dozen armed savages with nothing more than a spear and a sword, what would you call them?” he asked, his warm body, gone for so long, making her relax.

  
“Stupid,” she yawned, “or in my case, desperate. I wasn’t trying to take them all on, you know. I wanted to break through them and lead them away from the others.”

  
“And you don’t call that brave?’ he asked, his lips in her hair. “Everyone else does.”

  
“Well, if I had to do it again, I’d try something else,” she murmured, nearly asleep.

  
“Don’t do it again, dear,” he whispered. “I’ll die of heart failure. At least take me with you, if you decide to do such a thing again.”

  
“Right,” she said, and slept, his presence giving her more strength and comfort than he knew. It was a long time before he could sleep, his near-wife in his arms, her body, long, lean and curvaceous, nestled against him like a trusting puppy. Her scent, strong under his nose, since her hair had not been washed, like fine perfume, subtle and female, was exciting. He remembered vividly the taste of her, like a delicate pastry, sweet and a little salty. He concentrated on her breathing and finally mastered himself and slept. Her presence kept the nightmare vision of her injury at bay, and he awoke early the next morning, still in the same position.


	30. Chapter 30

He waited patiently and motionless for her to awaken, amazed at his good fortune to have found such a creature for a wife. He could think of nothing about her he wanted to change except her name, which would happen in a mere two weeks. Even her silly sense of humor was fun, though it seemed to strike her at the oddest, most inconvenient times. He was still pleasantly occupied at cataloging her many assets when she finally stirred.

  
“Mmm,” she said, stretching so that her body remained against his, her legs and arms reaching out and away beneath the covers. “Kit?”

  
“Awake at last,” he said in her ear, hugging her gently. “How do you feel?”

  
“Well, pretty good, considering,” she said, snuggling back against him.

  
“Considering what?” he asked, lifting her hair with delicate caution from her scalp wound. It seemed much less swollen to his critical eye.

  
“Considering I never had anyone turn me down like you did last night,” she said in a satisfied tone. “No one ever loved me enough to _not_ have sex with me before. I mean, even when we both wanted to. It’s probably the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me. But don’t let it happen again, Kit!”

  
“That will depend on how much better you are tonight, you little wanton,” he told her, gently touching her cut. It had gone down a little, he thought. “Tell me if it hurts, dear.”

  
“Not really hurt, you’re so careful,” she told him, luxuriating in his touch, his caring, his strength of body and will. “It’s more like an ache, sort of like a bruise.”

  
“Do you want to get up?” he asked, smoothing her hair back into place. He would be content to stay there as long as she wanted to.

  
“You’ll let me?” she asked, a bit surprised.

  
“I meant, to go to the bathroom, sit up, maybe put something on and show the tribe you still live,” he scolded mildly. “You don’t so much as put a foot to the ground today, dear. I think you might be allowed soft food, if you can keep your hands steady.”

  
“Oh, well, now that you mention it,” she admitted, “that first one sounds like a good idea. Would you mind?”

  
“Of course not, silly. I’ve been thinking along those lines myself,” he told her, tossing back the covers and scooping her up. Her arms went around his neck afterwards, and had a bit more of her normal strength, he decided, pleased. Breakfast might be in order.

  
“Do you feel like eating?” he asked, laying her back on the bed, then putting pillows under her back and shoulders. “Or would you rather do something else?”

  
“Do you think I could wash my hair?” she asked, her fingers probing carefully at her scalp. “It’s getting a bit, um, greasy. I’ll be careful, believe me.”

  
“Don’t be so quick to forget, dear,” he told her, putting on a silken robe from the wardrobe. “I have played hairdresser for you before. And I gave you a bath while you were still out of touch, shall we say. Do you want to wear anything to breakfast after your beauty treatment?”

  
“You mean you’d let me go to breakfast naked?” she asked as he gathered her up in his arms again, another robe draped across his shoulder for her. “I could work on my tan.”

  
“No, if you want to wear your birthday suit to breakfast, we’ll eat in,” he teased as they went down the passage, careful of her toes against the stone walls. Devil had dodged aside as they came out, and whined at his master. “Good boy, Devil. You can go.”

  
The wolf trotted off down the passage toward the village, while the two lovers made their way to the baths. Donna not only got her hair washed, but her body and face. She also got a very sensual and thorough massage, loosening and softening muscles that she hadn’t realized were tight and hard from her injury. She was so relaxed that she felt like a rag doll in his hands, and savored the image as he carried her back to the bedroom. While they had loitered in the steamy water, the bed had been remade, more pillows added, clothing put away or taken for cleaning, and fruit juice, bread and fruit left on the convenient trunk.

  
“Oh, good, breakfast in, or on, bed,” said Donna in a contented purr. “I’ve always wondered what the draw of that was. All I could ever think of was toast crumbs in the sheets, and how elegant is that?”

  
“You’ll have to work at getting crumbs in the sheets with the bed made like that,” he told her, packing pillows into a kind of chair back for her. “What would madam care to start with?”

  
“Madam would like to start with propositioning the waiter,” Donna grinned at him, putting on a snooty, upper class voice. “But that was already rejected. How is the Dom Perignon?”

  
“A bit fruity, but perhaps Madam will find it fresh, even insolent, much like the waiter,” said the big man, grinning back at her as he handed her the cup of guava-mango juice. Donna drank it down thirstily, hoping that her hands weren’t shaking enough for him to notice.

  
“I’m really beginning to like that stuff,” she commented, handing back the wooden cup. “Lovely bouquet, full bodied, good year.”

  
“And for the main course,” he told her, tearing a small loaf into smaller pieces, “a pastry dish, light, fluffy, individually portioned. A corn and rice bread mixed with whole wheat. Better with peanut butter, but I’m out.”

  
She let him feed her bite-sized pieces, finding that chewing was easier than she had thought it would be. He fed her while sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, eating his own loaf, drinking straight from the juice gourd. She needed another drink after about half of the loaf, and she didn’t want anymore bread.

  
“Waiter, I’ll have the dessert now, if you please,” she said in her best high-toned lady voice, patterned after several of her mother’s friends. “That yellow one there, that reminds one of the waiter somehow.”

  
“And when peeled, reminds one of the waitee,” he replied, laughing. He fed her bananas, tree ripened and soft, accidentally-on-purpose getting some on her nose. He ate the mangos and a guava.

  
“And for a tip, the waiter will take what’s on Madam’s nose,” he told her, kissing it clean. Her hands took his head in a firm grip and pulled his lips down to her own. Their kiss went on for some minutes, and established nothing more than their mutual love and desire.

  
“Ah, Donna,” said Kit, sitting back. “Let’s just save all that for tonight, shall we?”

  
“It’s like the ocean, darling Kit,” giggled Donna, a bit breathless. “You don’t really save it up, it’s always there. Just sometimes more urgent than others.”

  
“Well, I’ll save mine up, if you don’t mind,” he said, smiling. “Now, do you want to stay here in bed trying to seduce me all day, or go outside and show Tim and the Bandar you’re alive, and more or less well?”

  
“Seduction isn’t working,” she sighed. “What is there to wear?”

  
“What would you like?” he asked, looking through a drawer. “We have a, hm, blue and purple bikini, a very green swimsuit, a white T-shirt and shorts, a red sort of jumpsuit, and a large selection of colorful sarongs.”

  
“Bikini,” she decided. “If I’m going to lay around, I might as well get some sun. This is so strange. I’ve never had a man try to put clothes on me before. Nor had to beg for sex. Yet, except that I can’t have you, yet, I’ve never felt so loved and cared for in my life.”

  
“Then put your ring on,” he said, kissing her soft skin before covering her breasts with the bikini top. “And we’ll go out to see if we can find a place for you to receive all the other people who want to make sure I’m taking proper care of you. You did the same for me when we first met, if you recall.”

  
“You recovered faster,” she pointed out, sliding on the huge sapphire ring. “I didn’t get to pamper you very much.”

  
“And you had the good sense not to get punctured, or have respiratory failure, or need stitches, or trash your outfit,” he countered, carrying her out of the cave toward the sunlight. “I think it’s just my turn, darling. Going by family history, you’ll have another chance soon enough.”

  
“I don’t want another chance to do that!” she exclaimed, and he felt her shiver. “I’d much rather anything like that happen to me and not you! My pain is tolerable, yours tears me up inside.”

  
“Don’t fight it, or think about it, darling,” he advised, his feet taking them down the path to the paddock. “It’s the same way for me, so don’t worry about something we can’t stop, or that hasn’t happened yet. Look, I thought so.”

  
“What?” she asked, her heart still aching from his soft words, words that caressed and burned at the same time. “Tim?”

  
“No, Zarala had someone help her hang a hammock for you under the suli trees,” he told her, pointing. “That way you can be away from the village, but where people can come to see you. And Tim will be nearby. Does that suit you, my darling?”

  
“Looks good to me,” agreed Donna, who still hadn’t seen the hammock. She was looking at her horse, with the tiny Zarala on the fence brushing his face. She whistled a low, three-note call. The big horse suddenly snapped to attention, ears searching for the source of the sound. He didn’t recognize his human being carried and backed quickly away from the fence, to Zarala’s surprise. He voiced an anxious call, then ran in a little circle, ears flicking.

  
“Uh oh,” said Donna, “he was worried about me. Look out, Kit, he’s got me located.”

  
“What?” said the Phantom, even as Zarala shouted her name and dropped from the rail to run toward them. Tim gave another equine shout and headed for the four foot fence. A bounce of iron spring legs and he was on them, his head delicately nosing his beloved rider.

  
“Donna,” said the Phantom, laughing and trying to fend off the happy horse at the same time. “Can you get him to stay out of the way?”

  
“Good boy, Tim,” she said, patting his nose. “Get back, now, go on, get back.”

  
The horse backed away two steps, then a reluctant third, his head nodding excitedly. The Phantom, his masked face amused, laid his lover carefully in the hammock, Zarala holding the other side. It was a sturdy, mustard yellow canvas affair, lined with pale green terry cloth and boasting huge matching pillows at each end.

  
“This isn’t a hammock,” exclaimed Donna, as they stuck pillows under her head and shoulders. “This is an outdoor swing with delusions of grandeur. I love it. Thank you, Zarala, I’ve never been in a hammock before.”

  
“Don’t lean over the side,” warned the little girl, wearing green pants and shirt, her moccasins and a huge grin. “They tip over easily. Mama didn’t want to have you use it. She’s afraid you’ll fall out and hit your head again.”

  
“Helmet required?” suggested Donna, smiling at her tiny friend. “I’ll try not to fall. One fall a week is my limit, you know. Now, you’d better let Tim come see me before he digs a hole in the ground.”

  
The big bay, watched curiously by Hero, who stood calmly in the morning cliff-shadow, was pawing at the earth with first one front hoof, then the other. At his human’s soft call, he walked carefully up to her, his nostrils fluttering with an almost silent whuffle of inquiry. His delicate, gentle touch was almost human in it’s concern, his nose sniffing the body of his person, as if to make sure it was all there.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heloise Walker shows up

“It’s okay, Tim,” she murmured to him, stroking his nose and scratching around his eye ridges. “I’m alright. You were great, you know that? Do you remember? You were much more effective than I was, yes. Of course, Zarala was the deadliest of us all, but we make a great team, don’t we? My war-horse, right, Tim? Good boy, yes, good boy.”

  
“You know,” said the Phantom thoughtfully, “it’s too bad Tim’s gelded. He’s a very smart, affectionate horse. I think he might even be more intelligent than Hero. I don’t know if I mentioned it, but Tim dumped both you and your assailant off of his back, then mashed him into the sand, while very carefully avoiding you.”

  
“He’s my oldest best friend,” said Donna, patting the silken neck, noting her horse’s shiny coat and polished hooves. “I never would have got you out of that burning barn alive, or sort of alive, if we weren’t that close, you know. Who’s been painting his toenails?”

  
“Almost all the children in the tribe helped me wash and groom him yesterday,” Zarala said proudly. “He liked the attention, I think. One of the horse books in the library said to oil the feet after a bath, so we did. I’m not sure it’s the right kind of oil, though.”

  
“It looks good, Zarala,” Donna said, pushing her horse away. “Go on, Tim. Off with you, now. I can’t play with you today. Zarala will ride you later, go on.”

  
Having satisfied himself that his human lived and still loved him, the gelding carefully backed away and turned toward the pasture with Hero still in it. He whinnied to his new friend and raced to the fence again, jumping into the pasture as easily as he had come out. Hero galloped after him, following the gelding over the make-shift jumps in the big enclosure. The bay did a sort of excited dance, bucking and kicking and frolicking, before finally winding down and grazing near the blond.

  
“He’s happy you’re okay,” interpreted Zarala, watching the two horses’ antics. “So am I. Are you feeling better today? Uncle Rumal brought back your spear and helmet this morning. Mama said she’d fix the torn velvet, so she has it. Uncle Rumal cleaned your spear and he’s making a case for the head out of rawhide. Says he’ll have it all sharpened up, too. You dulled it in the fight.”

  
“At least I didn’t break it,” said Donna, flattered. “I could have sharpened it, you know. He doesn’t need to do all that. I messed it up, I should fix it.”

  
“Donna,” said her lover, the purple color he wore oddly effective camouflage in the shade, “he wants to, or he wouldn’t do it. Let him. It’ll be better than you trying it now. Your hands are still shaky. You might cut yourself.”

  
“He’s real impressed with you and Tim,” added the girl, her eyes shining with pride. “He says he counted up the bodies and about eighteen had either Tim’s or your mark on them. And I hit everyone I aimed at, too. I told him what happened and he says I need a bigger bow.”

  
“It was a good thing the ones we got didn’t get back up,” Donna told her friend seriously. “Some we didn’t really hurt, and if they’d got up really mad, it might have been the end of us. I told you to back us up, and no one could have done better. Thank you, Zarala.”

  
“You’re welcome, Lady Donna,” said the tiny girl politely. Inside, she treasured the comments, proud to have helped, though convinced that Tim and his valorous rider would have triumphed without her.

  
“Now, before you get visited by too many people, darling, I’ll go and see if I can’t find you some more juice and something to drink it with,” the Phantom told her, kissing her gently. “I think they’ll be quiet, but I’m sure a warrior of Zarala’s caliber can head them off if there’s too many. Only a few at a time, okay?”

  
“Yes, O Ghost Who Walks,” said Zarala, a determined look in her eye that gave her the seeming of her mother. He went away confident in her understanding and will. If she had to fight tigers bare-handed for Donna, Zarala would fling herself into it tooth and nail. He hoped that Mandy and her shadow wouldn’t find her too soon.

  
After he had gone, Donna sighed and stretched in the surprisingly comfortable contraption. Air moved all around you, the shade helped cool you, the motion was soothing. You could easily fall asleep in such a thing, she realized, as Kit no doubt had intended.

  
“Lady Donna?” asked Zarala from beside her. “Can you teach me to ride like you did with Tim in the Battle?” Even in the soft voice she used, Donna heard the capital of the word.

  
“You’ll need longer legs, dear,” she told her friend reluctantly. “Or a smaller horse. I must tell you that if I hadn’t been asleep for most of two days, I’d probably be sore through the thighs. As it is, if I get back on Tim too soon, I’ll feel it. All that dodging and turning and bucking means you need to have a good grip on the horse’s barrel.”

  
“So I’ll never be able to ride as well as you?” she asked, a little disappointed, but not surprised. No one could be as good as Lady Donna, she was sure.

  
“Not on a horse Tim’s size, maybe,” admitted Donna. “But a large pony, or an Arab horse, perhaps. It’s just practice, once you have the basics.”

  
“A small horse or pony wouldn’t have been able to do that, though,” said Zarala thoughtfully. She could see several women, her mother among them, on their way.

  
“No, but a small horse or pony is usually able to turn tighter,” Donna told her friend. “Tim’s too big and slow for something like polo, you know. That takes a smaller, lighter horse, one with hot blood, and a big heart and speed. If you’d been riding a polo pony, we would have gone through that second group like a boat through water. And we wouldn’t have had to, since we could have all left after we freed the prisoners. That’s my next project, I think. How do I find out if anyone in Bengalla plays polo?”

  
“Do you feel like talking to my mother and her friends?” asked Zarala, reluctantly interrupting this interesting line of thought. “Because here they come.”

  
“I guess so,” said Donna, feeling very much pampered and contented. All she needed was a beach and a rum drink with a little paper umbrella in it to look as if she belonged on a travel poster. Her tiny guardian nodded to her mother and Jula came forward, her fellow fashion mavens in tow.

  
“Lady Donna,” she said, her arms full of fabric in a dazzling white. “I am pleased to see you looking so much better this morning. We have brought the wedding gown for you to see, and your bridesmaids’ as well. Would you like to look at them now?”

  
“Oh, yes,” said Donna, trying to sit up and finding it difficult. “Uh, I guess I’ll just have to look from here. Sorry, I can’t seem to get up.”

  
“You aren’t supposed to,” said Jula severely. “I will lay the wedding dress across your body so you can see what has been done. Konala, go around to the other side, please, so that we don’t dirty the fabric.”

  
The shining white gown, only just opaque, was beautiful, each hem at wrist and ankle level on it’s way to an elaborate embroidered design. The neckline was not yet begun, but would also be decorated. Donna was delighted, and said so.

  
“Yes, it will look very fine,” said Jula with justifiable satisfaction. “Konala, take it back, please. We will work on it this afternoon. Danila, bring the other dress, please."

  
This was a pale purple satin garment, with puffed shoulders, belled sleeves, and a wide, flared skirt that would, Jula informed her, come just below Mandy’s knees. The lavender color would be accented with pale green ribbons around the hem and scooped neckline, to help the skirt and sleeves flare properly. Danila worried about Mandy’s choice of hairstyle, and hoped she would be less adventurous about that.

  
“I’ll speak to her about it, if I see her,” promised Donna. “Surely the dress is daring enough. It must look quite nice with her coloring. Such nice dark hair and eyes.”

  
“I thought it looked very pretty,” admitted Jula, with a supporting nod from Danila, who seemed shy, even after her brief remarks about Mandy’s hair. “But no one will see her when you are there, Lady Donna. You will be all he sees, I promise you.”

  
Donna blushed, which was quite evident, since a great deal of her was exposed to color. She muttered an embarrassed thank you to Jula, who went away with her friend Danila to continue their art.

  
“Lady Donna,” asked Zarala, as they left. “What’s a bridesmaid?”

  
“I have to tell you,” confided Donna to her friend, “I don’t really know what they’re supposed to do, but most brides have two or three. Usually, they’re your friends, or sisters, or something, about your own age. They all wear the same kind of dress, at least at the weddings I’ve been to, and come in before the bride does. And then they just stand on her side of the altar while she gets married. I think that’s all they do.”

  
“You only have Mandy,” pointed out Zarala, wondering if she could do that. Was that more important than making Tim look right? Could she do both? “Who else are you going to get?”

  
“Well, I thought about asking you,” Donna told her friend. “But you have a real job, with Tim, and it’s not fair to ask you do to both. I asked Mandy because I thought it would be easy and keep her out of Kit’s way. I’m hoping that his sister, Heloise, will be one, too. Do you think she’ll look alright in that color?”

  
“What color?” asked a new voice, startling them both. “And what do you want me to be?”

  
“Lady Heloise,” squeaked Zarala. “You startled me. Where did you come from?”

  
“Singapore, most recently,” replied the woman, moving around where Donna could see her. “Parachuted in a few minutes ago. Talked to Kit, came to see you. You must be Donna McLaren. Heloise Walker.”

  
Donna took the offered hand, amazed at how this woman mirrored her lover. Tall, dark-haired, gray-eyed, she was all muscle and bone, a skin-tight jumpsuit emphasizing her figure. Clad in gray silk and gray leather, she wore boots, and a gunbelt from which were slung two silver automatics. Her thick mane of hair hung past her shoulders, but only just, a slight wave to it. Her face was a female version of Kit’s, beautiful but stern, it’s lines proclaiming efficient command, of herself and others.

  
“Oh, I’m so glad you could come,” said Donna politely. “I’m sorry, but I don’t seem to have the knack for hammocks, yet, and I’m not really supposed to get up, or I would. I didn’t hear a plane, were you very high up?”

  
“I hope you didn’t hear it,” smiled the tall woman. “I paid enough to make it quiet! I understand you got hurt pulling Mandy’s fat out of the fire, so don’t bother explaining about that. Got my bell rung a few times, come to that, doing the same thing. I hear the two of you were quite a team.”

  
“It was Zarala, my horse, and after she got loose, Mandy, who did most of the work,” insisted Donna. “I just got hurt doing something stupid, is all. Kit and my horse kept me alive.”

  
“Not how I heard it,” smiled the tall woman in gray. “Now, what were you going to ask me?”

  
“Oh, would you mind being a bridesmaid, Heloise?” asked Donna diffidently. “I only have Mandy, and I think you’re supposed to have more than one, but I’m not sure. I have to admit, I don’t really know all that much about weddings. I’m not sure I ever really expected to have one. You can see the dress Mandy picked out at Jula’s, if you want to check first. I thought lavender and mint green would be nice colors.”

  
“Oh, I’ll be a bridesmaid,” said Heloise, actually rather pleased to be asked. “Ah, here comes my little brother with your lunch. I’ll just go see Jula, then. We’ll talk later.”

  
She turned and walked into the village, greeting people familiarly in Bandarese as she did. Donna noted her walk was the same tigerish, silent stride, powerful and long, that the Phantom used. No one in their right mind would try conclusions with her, reflected Donna, wondering if any of her clients or agents had ever seen her like this.

  
“Did she behave herself?” asked her lover, as he came near enough to be heard without shouting. He carried a folding tray, a coil of rope, and several gourds. Moki trotted behind him with another tray that bore cups, bread, fruit and a strange jar. “I told her not to stay too long. She can be a little overwhelming in large doses.”

  
“She hardly said anything,” Donna assured him. “I can’t believe how much she resembles you, twin or no.”

  
“Too bad she didn’t look more like Mom,” he commented, setting up the tray near her right side. He took Moki’s tray and set that on top of the little portable table. The gourds he handed to Zarala, as Moki darted off. “She’d be married by now, for sure. As it is, I think even some of her agents are intimidated by her.”

  
“Well, they probably should be,” said Donna, watching him take off the coil of rope he had been wearing. “She’s your sister, after all. What are you doing?”

  
“Making a couple of seats for people who come to talk to you,” he told her, flipping one end of the rope over a low branch. He caught the end and tied it so that a long loop hung down to about knee height on him. Cutting off the rest of the coil, he repeated the exercise twice more.

  
“Sort of swinging chairs,” said Donna, as Zarala tried one out. “Good idea, Kit. I’ll have a tough time talking to anyone sitting on the ground, and standing gets old really fast. And if I fall asleep, you can use them to hang laundry from, or something like.”

  
“Oh, I think you’ll probably have enough visitors to keep you awake most of the day,” he told her, pouring juice into a cup for her. “I realize we just had breakfast, but Muzi insisted you have snack food. My sister brought a jar of peanut butter, if you’d like to try it, or for visitors. I’m going to leave you with Zarala and go talk to my sister for a while, but if you need me, just send someone, and I’ll come.”

  
“Ah, Kit, I always need you, I just can’t be selfish about it. Besides, you’re spoiling me rotten,” Donna told him, grinning, the fruit juice resting on her bare midriff. “You know, lots of people pay big money to do just this in Fiji, Hawaii, the Bahamas. Go, tell your sister all about my stupid accident, but tell her I’ll do better next time, too.”

  
“Oh, Donna,” he sighed, resigned. “No next time without me, remember? Zarala, make sure she behaves, okay?”

  
“I will, O Ghost Who Walks,” promised the tiny girl, solemn in spite of standing in the rope and swinging back and forth. The Phantom turned and walked purposefully back into the village, trailing his sister.

  
A steady trickle of well-wishers, including the Chief, Muzi, Dandoli and Zarala’s Uncle Rumal, spear in hand, came by ones and twos to pay their respects, chat briefly and depart. The spear, with a new leather cover for the point, stayed leaning against the tree that held up the foot end of the hammock. The fruit and bread was consumed by visitors, except for a little bread that Zarala tried the peanut butter with, and some that Tim ate.

  
Eventually, during the hottest part of the day, Donna dozed off, and Zarala warned off most of the visitors. She did draft Dandoli to sit with Donna while she fetched down Tim’s tack and brushes, but most of the time Zarala just thought, swinging back and forth gently. She enjoyed the feeling of guarding her idol, and wondered if she would be able to saddle Tim by herself.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the twins discuss Donna

As Donna drowsed, her lover and his sister were in the second village, taking a brief look at some of the experimental crops. The talk was not of the advanced hybrid vegetables and grains, but of Donna herself. It had been over an hour before Heloise had been allowed to leave Jula’s clutches, and they had been looking for a quiet place to talk.

  
“You picked a good one, little brother,” Heloise told him, looking at a corn stalk as if she cared for its health. “I’ve done a little bit of research. Do you want to know what I’ve found out about your lady love?”

  
“I don’t know, big sister,” he replied, picking a caterpillar off of a leaf and dropping it on the rich soil. “Do I?”

  
“Sure do. What’d she tell you about her athletics?” Heloise stepped on the caterpillar.

  
“Said she was pretty good at judo, gymnastics and fencing,” he recalled. “Also, I find she has ambitions as regards the Olympic equestrian events. I can vouch for her expertise with horses and a sword, but her bladework is more imaginative than regulation fencing permits. I can’t say much about her other skills. She said she’d got as far as the nationals and been defeated. And she was eligible for the last New Zealand Event team, but not chosen.”

  
“Accurate, but incomplete,” Heloise informed him. “She lost gymnastics because she was too tall and couldn’t do the uneven parallel bars without dragging her toes. She lost both fencing and judo tryouts, on consecutive days, with a fever of over a hundred and one. The judge from Japan who was officiating was so impressed that he gave her a personal tour of the Kodokan in Tokyo, and a private lesson. That was several years ago, remember, when that flu season was so bad.”

  
“Oh, um, five, six years ago,” he recalled, pulling some dead leaves from a tomato plant. “That year so many died in Mawitaan. She fought, both days, with that flu? The one where you couldn’t eat and coughed non-stop?”

  
“That’s the one, little brother,” agreed Heloise. “And I have it on good authority that she could have medalled, but for that, in both sports. Her grades have always been excellent, her interests varied, mostly, I think, depending on which teacher held her attention best.”

  
“And how is it, big sister,” he said lazily, as they walked, “that your files didn’t suggest her? She is a paragon, after all, if I do say so myself.”

  
“Because she hadn’t won,” grimaced Heloise. “My search parameters were too narrow. Not that I need them anymore. Her family history indicates a serious lack of instinct for self-preservation, coupled with incredible luck. Her grandfather on her mother’s side was a lighthouse keeper who regularly rescued people during storms, for instance. Her father’s side tended to have war heroes and extremely determined women. A great aunt led a counter charge against a renegade Maori army that turned the tide of a battle. You know, kind of like our family.”

  
“Like she did with me in New Zealand, and with Mandy here,” the Phantom said, nodding. “By all accounts I’ve heard, you’d have been hard-pressed to do as well against the Mussanga. And though she doesn’t say so unless asked, Zarala and her Uncle counted at least eight of the first dozen or so as her kills, and perhaps as many in the second group.”

  
“I thought as much,” said the woman in gray, her eyes glinting satisfaction. “My informants also say there’s no known hereditary infirmities, no one who died young except for war, accident or, as they say, misadventure. All in all, you really lucked out, little brother. All that ability, and nice looking, too.”

  
“I tell myself that every day, Heloise,” he said with a smile. “And I tell her that she’s beautiful, too. She doesn’t really think she’s pretty, for some reason. Insists I just have a prejudiced point of view.”

  
“Well, she’s not pretty,” said Heloise thoughtfully, as they strolled into the orchard area. “She’s not air-headed enough to be pretty. Beautiful, yes. It’s not the same thing, really. Pretty only lasts while you’re young. Beautiful lasts a lifetime, like Mom.”

  
“She may take more stock in your opinion,” laughed the Phantom. “Can you stay until the wedding, or are you only here to vet my fiancée?”

  
“I’ll have to leave tomorrow,” she sighed. “I’ve got a couple of agents to mother through their assignments. I’ll need to borrow a horse to get to Mawitaan. Am I right in assuming that it’s Zarala she wants the pony for?”

  
“I think so,” the Phantom admitted. “Her Tim is very smart and kind, but he’s just too big for such a small person. An Arab, or a polo pony is more what Zarala needs. Something brave and fast, to keep up with Donna, because Zarala’s going to want to do whatever Donna does. And Donna is thinking about representing Bengalla in the next Olympics as an eventer. Zarala’s already got herself the job of chief groom and manager. And she’s got a practice course set up already, I see.”

  
They had come upon a group of people sitting in the shade, their feet, or even their entire bodies in the little pool of water they were grouped around. To one side of the pond, a wide spot in the stream that flowed down the valley, they had been erecting a solid log wall, braced by posts at each end and lashed together. Most of the children from both villages, Mandy and her shadow, the lieutenant, and several older Bandar were there, and looked tired.

  
“Hello, Gomar,” the Phantom greeted the nearest adult Bandar. “What are you working on?”

  
“We build a ‘water jump’, o Ghost Who Walks,” said the warrior in Bandarese. “For the brown horse to practice on. Already we have built a ‘bank jump’ and a ‘bounce jump.’ We have not told the Lady Donna, yet. We have yet to build a ‘ditch jump.’ I think she must have a horse as brave as Hero, to think such things fun! I would not go over them, if I could help it.”

  
“At least you keep the pilot woman out of trouble, Gomar,” laughed Heloise, still in Bandarese. “I hope they have been helpful. Do they understand what you do?”

  
“Probably better than I do, Lady Heloise,” snorted the pygmy. “We build with Jokan’s directions. He says the Lady Donna showed him these things several days ago. Now we will surprise her when she is better. I am told she is resting outside in the shade, now. She is feeling better, then?”

  
“She seems to be,” the Phantom admitted with a smile, all the other Bandar hanging on his words. “But Muzi insists she rest at least the remainder of today, and take it easy tomorrow. And you know how Muzi is. So she probably won’t get to see this for a few days. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  
“Keep her away for those few days, or longer,” said the older man with a laugh. “We have much work to do before it can be used by a horse. But when it can be, the whole tribe is going to want to watch. It is amazing that people, and their horses, do this for fun. I can see why the helmet is so important.”

  
“Maybe we can test them later this afternoon,” said Heloise, inspecting the earth on the dry side of the log wall. “I rather like the idea of eventing. Perhaps we can field a team by then. Donna, Zarala and I, and maybe you, little brother. I think you need four. How is Hero’s dressage?”

  
“You don’t have a horse, Heloise,” he pointed out. “And neither does Zarala. Donna was going to compete as an individual. Teams are expensive. We’ll probably have to ship her, and Tim, and Zarala, and their gear to England for qualifiers. Then we’d have to send them to wherever it is next time. And even if I could do that, you know how that usually works.”

  
“Well, maybe I could just borrow Hero, then,” mused Heloise. “I haven’t been to the Olympics since I got the gold in the Hundred Meters. Be a kick to go back. Unlike you, I can delegate a little. And Altair is making lots of money, more than enough to support a hobby. Maybe I’ll just buy an event horse. Donna’s horse is nice. Does he have any relatives?”

  
“I don’t know,” he told his sister as they walked up the trail, waving at the laughing children as they left. Mandy and Hayakawa hadn’t understood most of what had been said, as it had been in the Bandar native tongue. “You’ll have to ask her. There’s good-looking horses all over that country, though.”

  
“Hmm, I’ll have to go see,” said the woman in gray. “Who’s the guy with Mandy? I don’t know him.”

  
“Lieutenant Shunji Hayakawa of the Jungle Patrol,” chuckled the Phantom. “I assigned him to keep her out of trouble while they’re here. Sam should be back tonight or tomorrow, and they can go out with him, once they fix her plane. You could, too, if you want. Catch Demon Beach.”

  
“Tempting,” mused Heloise, as they came out in the lower part of the valley. The horses stared at them curiously. “Save me a day or so, and you a horse.”

  
“Your pilot still that Bannon guy?” the Phantom asked with mild curiosity. “The two of you still an item?”

  
“Yep. Too bad he’s so dim,” said Heloise as they strolled up the valley. “But it keeps him manageable, I guess. Good with a plane, good in bed, looks nice at parties, and keeps his mouth shut. Not perfect, but good company, as long as you have a good book.”

  
“You women are cruel,” laughed the masked giant. “Donna and you will get along very well. You talk as if he were an accessory of some sort. What does he get out of the deal?”

  
“A job, someone to tell him what to do, and lots of sex,” his sister said, shrugging. “Most men seem to think that’s what all women want. Thankfully, most of that sort of idiot has learned not to come my way. They have a name for me now, you know. Did I tell you?”

  
“What kind of name?” he asked as they neared the paddock. Hero trotted down to meet them, but Tim stayed near his mistress.

  
“Rakshasa,” she told him with satisfaction in her voice. “It means the Demon. I rather like it.”

  
“You would,” he said, patting Hero’s neck. “Who calls you that?”

  
“Apparently everyone,” she told him as they neared the _suli_ trees where Donna rested. “I found out about it only a few months ago, but it’s been in use for years.”

  
“Knowing something about how you do business, I don’t doubt it,” the Phantom agreed. “Will you need any help with your current mission?”

  
“No, I’m back up for the assigned agents,” Heloise said, her dark hair lifting slightly as the afternoon breeze picked up. Hero watched them as they climbed the fence out of the paddock. “They’re competent, but if there’s trouble, I’m the only one who’ll be good enough to get them out. The plan is clear, there should be no difficulties.”

  
“The best laid plans of mice and men,” quoted the Phantom, smiling down at Donna as she blinked sleepily up at him. “Good afternoon, darling.”

  
“What plans?” mumbled Donna, yawning. “My plans are set, lover. Woe betide you, sinner, if you upset this evening’s schedule.”

  
“My plans,” Heloise laughed. “Little brother, my plans work well, thank you, probably due to the fact that I’m neither mouse nor man.”

  
“Ah, wounded to the core,” laughed the big man, leaning over to kiss his lover tenderly. “I see Tim’s gear, Zarala. Are you going to ride?”

  
“I think Tim should get some exercise,” the tiny girl told the three people she most respected in the world. “But I don’t think I can saddle him properly. It’s not the weight, it’s the girth. And I’m not good enough, yet, to give him a real work out.”

  
“I’ll saddle him for you, Zarala,” Heloise told her kindly. “I think I can find my way around, if you show me what goes where.”

  
“Why don’t you and Zarala go for a ride?” suggested Donna, stretching her shoulder a little, finding it had stiffened up again. “I’m afraid her last one was not very relaxing. Surely, being Kit’s sister, you know how to go about it right. Tim would enjoy it, now that he knows I’m still in one piece.”

  
“Would you mind, Zarala?” asked Heloise politely. “If you’d rather ride by yourself, I can borrow Hero.”

  
“Oh, no, Lady Heloise,” exclaimed the girl. “I would be glad to ride with you. I am a little, um, insecure at the trot, still. Even Mandy Baker was a help. I’m sure you’ll be almost as good as Lady Donna. Because Tim’s hers, you know.”

  
“I’m not insulted,” Heloise assured her, as Donna laughed to herself. That the Amazonian Heloise could be inferior to such as she, in anyone’s mind, was high praise, she thought, flattered. “Anyone who rides one horse more often than anyone else gets to work better together with that horse. And I daresay Tim and Donna are a very good team. Which pad goes on first?”

  
Between them, Heloise and Zarala got Tim tacked up quickly, the tiny girl having already groomed him very thoroughly. The bay gelding had no objections to his new rider, as her hands were good, her seat secure, her legs informative. The two riders made off in the direction of the forest between the villages, leaving the two lovers alone. The breeze stirred Donna’s hair, and she smiled up at the towering figure of her fiancé, dark and powerful. He traced her lower lip with his fingertip, and then brushed her cheek, as softly as the breeze itself.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aboma details, Heloise decides to get a horse

“You are the soul of generosity, my lady,” he told her, his voice that deep, caressing purr. “To loan my sister your horse and your friend both, it is beyond the reach of mere hospitality. Do you feel the need for another drink, or any food, or company? I’m afraid you’re not going to tan at all in the deep shade here.”

  
“Then pick me up, love,” she said with a purr of her own. “Kiss me and take me out in the sun for just a little while. I’ll be good, I promise.”

  
“I believe you, little paladin,” he chuckled in her ear, even as he gathered her long body up. “It’s your definition of ‘good’ I suspect. Remember, no exertion until this evening. Late, this evening.”

  
“Kit, darling, I’ve never let that thought go out of my head for more than a minute,” she told him, luxuriating in his strong, gentle hold. Did other women feel like this when their lovers held them, she wondered? So safe, so loved, so protected and treasured. “I knew you’d use my lust for you against me, didn’t I say so? I didn’t think you’d use it to wait on me hand and foot, though.”

  
“What did you think I’d make you do?” he asked, choosing a sunny spot on the bank of the bathing pool. He sat down with his back against a gray rock and arranged his lover so that she lay against him. She closed her eyes and smiled.

  
“Oh, bake a pie, or clean your tack, or dress up like a zebra or something,” she told him, feeling his arm around her, his wide shoulder under her head. “Or stay off of Tim when I get pregnant, or stay home while you risk your neck.”

  
“You can bake pies?” he asked in mild disbelief. “I might just do that, but I don’t believe you know how to bake pies. Do you really?”

  
“Apple, peach, cherry and mincemeat,” she declared firmly. “Not prize winners at the fair, mind you, but decent. Give me enough time to figure out the kitchen, and we’ll see if I can do mango or guava. Biscuits, cakes, no worries. Pies are harder.”

  
“Oh,” he said mildly, feeling the heat of her presence more than the sunlight. He wanted to wrap her in cotton and put her somewhere safe, like the treasures hidden in the Cave. He knew, somehow, that she would see it more like being interred, as the Phantoms before him had been. She would understand, but resent it, and he could not fault her for such feelings. “Why a zebra?”

  
“I have no idea,” she said contentedly. “Ah, lover, you make me feel so safe, so loved, so lucky. Are you going to kiss me, darling Kit, or must I wait for that, too?”

  
“One of my favorite pastimes,” he murmured, lips in her hair. He lowered her to a prone position on the grassy bank, only his arm still under her head, and kissed her long and sensuously. Her response pleased him, for it was much stronger than it had been before. He whispered her name softly, just to hear the sound of it.

  
“Ah, Kit, I love you so,” she sighed, her body trembling ever so slightly under his hand. “But if I stay like this, I’ll burn. Can I turn over, please?”

  
“Wouldn’t want you burned as well as concussed,” he said, helping her roll over so that she lay with her back to the bright sun. “Let me see how your head looks, dear.” 

  
It seemed much less tender and swollen, he thought, and felt relief flood through him like cool water. He kissed the hair above it, and her neck below, feeling the taut muscles of her back under his stroking hand. He began to rub her down, massaging her as she lay on the grass, the rich scent of jungle earth in her nostrils.

  
“Don’t want you to be sore or stiff for tonight,” he told her gently, his big hands molding her body like a sculptor, making her groan with delight. “I’m so happy that you’re going to be alright, dear. You terrified me when you were out for so long. Loving you is such an emotional rollercoaster, Donna.”

  
“Hmph,” she said in a muffled voice, feeling hands strong enough to crush stones rub gently at her neck and spine. “I’ve got the same problem, o Ghost Who Walks. Scare me to death by dying, then come back to life, then propose, of all things. But I wouldn’t trade any of it, not one second. I only wonder, who’s the second most wonderful man in the world?”

  
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Donna, darling,” he said, amused and pleased. He gently moved her arms so that he could work on her shoulders more easily. “If he shows up, be warned, I intend to keep you.”

  
“Not for me, silly,” groaned Donna as he worked on her. “For your sister. It’s going to be awfully hard to match her, you know. She’s likely got higher standards than you do. What did she bring you besides peanut butter?”

  
“My sister can find her own husband,” he told her, feeling her muscles and tendons loose and pliant under his hands. “Or not, as she prefers. I did it, so I’m sure she can, if she wants to. And what else she brought is a surprise. You’ll find out later.”

  
“Oh, your surprises are always so nice,” she sighed, feeling like a puddle of warm milk in the sun, his soothing hands on her lower back now. “Mine need work, I think.”

  
“Why do you think so?” he asked, admiring her firm backside in its skimpy bikini.

  
“Well, the last surprise I gave you was not much fun for either of us,” she regretted.

  
“But Mandy appreciated it,” he told her, satisfied with his work. He stroked her shoulder with pleasure as she lay next to him, watching the faintly lighter shade of skin fade back to rosy flesh as his hand moved over it. “And you could hardly have done anything else, could you? Actually, now that I’m past the horrified, worried, anxious part of it, I’m awfully proud of you. I know, Tim and Zarala helped. But Tim wouldn’t have gone anywhere without you, and Zarala only went because you did.”

  
“I figured you’d be mad, Kit,” she confessed, glad he couldn’t see her face, for there were tears on it. “But I did it anyway, since I figured I was closest. I couldn’t let Mandy get eaten without trying to help her.”

  
“Darling, daring, wonderful Donna,” he said tenderly. “I’d only have been angry if you had had some frivolous reason, like Mandy would have, by the way. You had an excellent reason, life or death, and carried out the operation nearly without a hitch. It’s in your blood, I think, helping and rescuing people. How can I object when that’s how we met? I’ll just have to learn to live with the sheer, heart-stopping terror of it, won’t I?”

  
“Like I guess I will,” she mumbled. “I’ve been reading your Chronicle, Kit. It’s a two-way street. I knew you’d lived through the danger to write about it, but I was in agony about each adventure. I had to finish one entirely before going to sleep, or I’d have had nightmares.”

  
“Donna, don’t think about it,” he advised. “Don’t worry, it only puts more stress on your mind and body. Instead, think of the looks you’ll get from the chiefs whose people you rescued! Better yet, think of the nightmares you’ll give those surviving Mussanga. For the rest of their lives they’ll remember you every time they see a horse or a white woman, or even a sword or spear! Like everyone else, they tend to assume that what they see one person do, all similar folks can do. They’re going to think all white women are deadly warriors, martial artists, and dangerous to the point of fatality! They’ve even got two examples to go by, instead of just one. If they ever run into Heloise, it will be set in their minds forever.”

  
“Do you think she could have saved Mandy, and those other people, without killing anyone?” asked Donna, having a delicious image in her mind of a tribe of Mussanga fleeing from a delicate, brainless fluff-head like her neighbor, Tessa Youngblood-Tremaine. Tessa would have fainted at the idea of cannibals, let alone sight of one, she told herself with secret delight. “I’m still sorry I had to do that.”

  
“You can ask her, if you like, but I doubt she’d have tried,” he told her. “She’s always figured that you go your own way. If their way was to get in hers, they would just have to take their chances. Luck, skill and cold nerve have always served Heloise well, not always in that order. I have the same allies, but with the added factor of the Phantom legend behind me. She doesn’t have the edge to let people run, or think about running, just like you didn’t. She tends to shoot people who get in her way, or who look like they might.”

  
“Well, unless you want to let people do what they want, I guess you have to make your point somehow,” mumbled the Kiwi, fighting to keep her mind on the conversation. The distraction of his voice, his touch, his scent, drew her attention away from the subject as if with a magnet. “How’s my back look?”

  
“Like you’ve had enough for one day,” he said with an experimental touch. There was a slight difference in skin tone under the cloth she wore, so he picked her limp body up once more. He swung her around in a circle, pivoting on his booted heel, feeling happy, happiness that only increased when she giggled a bit in his arms, still relaxed and trusting.

  
“Ah, Kit, you pamper me shamelessly,” she sighed as he laid her back in the hammock. “Just wait until it’s your turn. I’m having a lot of time to plot!”

  
“Bored, then?” he asked, handing her a cup of juice. “I can get you a book, or read to you. Or we can run a speaker out here and tune in some radio station. Or we can get Hero over here and have him go through his tricks, or Devil.”

  
“That seems rather demeaning,” she commented, sipping the orange juice. “Even if it is practice. It’s different with Tim, he’s kind of a clown, perfectly willing to show off, but Hero’s more dignified, and so’s Devil. But I’d love to have you read to me, or tell me a story, Kit.”

  
“What kind of story, darling Donna?” he asked, trying out the rope seat nearest her. “A fairy tale, a ghost story, a sea story, a hunting story? I know a lot of stories, but Old Man Moze does a better job telling most of them.”

  
“Tell me about this Aboma character,” asked Donna, resting the cup on her bare stomach. “I keep hearing about her, but all I know is vague generalities.”

  
“Oh, Aboma lived long ago, if she lived at all, before the Phantom line began,” he told her, seeing her interest. “She was supposed to be the queen of a tribe of women warriors, and ruled many other tribes as well. Under her rule, peace and justice flourished, and trade brought great wealth to all. She’s kind of the regional version of King Arthur, I guess. The fabled noble kingdom, the lost city of Shinzo, the battles against impossible odds, and both magic and gods overcome. It was said that, by herself, Aboma could defeat a hundred foes, and her army could defeat anyone. She’s supposed to have united this whole area, built cities, enforced laws, killed monsters, even changed the shape of the land where it didn’t suit her.”

  
“What happened to her?” asked Donna, flattered to have been compared to such a woman. Surely, as with most legends, much was exaggeration, but a core of truth probably remained. “Did she have any children?”

  
“She had over a hundred husbands, according to the stories,” he told her with a grin. “And at least ten children, one delivered on the battlefield. In her old age, they say, the god of battles and empires, Dak, took her to the realm of gods to be his wife. Another version says she died in her sleep of old age, and was buried, along with all of her husbands. Her empire lasted only a few more years, then broke up from lack of guidance, or a firm hand.”

  
“Is she supposed to return someday, like Arthur?” asked Donna, wondering about all those husbands.

  
“Oddly enough, yes,” he told her thoughtfully. “The Oogaan say that if a man worthy of her has need of such skills, she will be sent back to help him from the spirit world. I’ll bet the same thought has occurred to more than one of them since your, ah, rescue.”

  
“Well, if she does come back, she’ll have to fight me for you,” Donna told him. “Can’t be anyone else in the ‘worthy’ category, after all.”

  
“Umm, I’m pretty sure that’s not what the tribes are going to figure, dear,” he said hesitantly. “I’m almost sure they think that you’re Aboma reincarnated, here to help me for some reason.”

  
“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” laughed Donna, a bit annoyed. “First the Apakura business, now Aboma, the once and future queen. I’ll be the first to admit that you deserve the best, but I’ll fight to the death to keep you mine.”

  
“You are the best, dearest,” he told her, seeing Tim and his riders wander up out of the trees. “And I’m not interested in anyone else, living, dead, or spiritual. It’s only a legend, after all, and probably blown all out of proportion. But the Chiefs and the tribes are likely to believe. I’m guessing that Aboma, if she ever existed, was a chiefess with some battle skill, a lot of charisma, and tons of luck. She probably ruled six or eight villages, had two husbands, fought a few battles against odds, at which superior tactics prevailed, and died of old age.”

  
“You’re a legend, Kit,” she reminded him, “and a darn solid one, at that. But look at me, I’m a _pakeha_ , a white, not a black amazon queen. And I’ve barely managed a dozen enemies with help, let alone by myself.”

  
“Let them have their illusions, darling,” he advised her with a grin. “A little superstition can go a long way in a confrontation. If word gets around, maybe you won’t need to fight anymore. That would be worth any trouble I have to go to, I must say.”

  
“Well, you ought to know, O Ghost Who Walks,” she grumbled, then smiled. “Does that make me the ‘Ghost Who Rides?’ Or the ‘Ghost Who Falls Off?’”

  
“They do say that Aboma rode either a Cape buffalo, a rhino, or an elephant, depending on where you hear the story,” he said, watching Heloise teaching Zarala how to stand up on the saddle as they walked. “I’d believe the rhino before I bought in on the Cape buffalo story. And there were only African elephants here that long ago, so that’s not really a big possibility, either.”

  
“You mean that you have both types of elephant now?” Donna asked, diverted. “Why?”

  
“Centuries ago, a ship, or two, filled with animals from India and that area, was wrecked off Bengalla. The climate was similar and the survivors did well. The Bengalla tiger is the biggest cat on record, though many people think that it’s a typo for Bengal.”

  
“And big is?” she prompted, having always admired the large cats from a distance.

  
“Almost a thousand pounds,” he estimated, remembering. “But my grandfather killed one, with a spear, that was probably over that. Not too many are that big, though.”

  
Donna promised herself she would keep on admiring from a distance. As much distance as possible.

  
“There’s Heloise and Zarala,” he remarked, pointing. “Tim doesn’t look too upset. Heloise must have behaved herself with him.”

  
“She would have been careful of someone else’s horse,” said Donna with certainty. “You’re always careful the first few times.”

  
“And Zarala would have objected if she did something odd,” guessed the masked giant. “She’s rather taken with the eventing idea, by the way. Says she’ll sponsor you, if you want. Also asked about Tim’s breeding. Wanted to know if he had any relatives for sale.”

  
“Horses like Tim don’t come cheap,” Donna warned, hearing the bay’s hooves approaching. “Made ones, anyway. Remember, I’ve had him since he was three. There’s good, made eventers, Olympic level, maybe, for sale in New Zealand, but it’ll cost a pretty penny.”

  
“That’s quite alright, Donna,” said Heloise, near enough to have to duck tree branches. “I love this horse. I’m going to have to get one like him. Little brother, this horse is so sweet and easy to ride, I can hardly believe it. Donna, you trained him yourself?”

  
“I didn’t give him his first training, the people who bred him to race did that,” Donna temporized. “I taught him his dressage, to jump, all his tricks, but he came with a willing heart, courage and a sweet disposition. Most of what he does is just out of a desire to please humans.”

  
“Well, he’s pleased me well enough,” said Heloise firmly. “Zarala, where do we find him some sweet bread?”

  
“Aunt Kana probably made some for tonight,” said the tiny girl promptly. “Because you’re here, and Lady Donna’s better, and the other two are still here. If you distract her, I can get him a piece.”

  
“Oh, let’s ride down and ask,” said Heloise, patting the damp neck. “He needs to walk a little more, yet. We’ll get Tim to ask her for us, and I’ll bet she’ll give it to him.”

  
“Aunt Kana never gives me sweet bread when I ask,” Zarala objected as they turned to ride into the village. “Or anyone else, either.”

  
“But you’re not a horse,” Donna heard the tall brunette tell Zarala.

  
“I think your parents are going to meet Heloise before the wedding,” said the Phantom, as the horse went behind the first small house. “Who should we warn?”

  
“Why should she meet my parents?” asked Donna, still feeling a warm glow inside at Heloise’ reaction to Tim. “They don’t have any horses.”

  
“But they know where Tim came from, don’t they?” he pointed out. “And she’ll want to, anyway. It’ll be a good excuse, that’s all.”

  
“Is she researching my pedigree?” asked Donna, not at all annoyed. “Please tell her that I’ve tried all my life not to be like my mother, really.”

  
“Oh, she’s already researched you, and approved,” he told her, relieved that Donna didn’t mind. “From what she tells me, you could tell me as many tales about your relatives as I can tell about mine.”

  
“You mean Great Aunt Ofelia and the lion?” said Donna in surprise. “Or Granpa Sutton and the wreck of the ‘Celia Hayes’?”

  
“That sounds like a good start,” he said, seeing the horse and the two humans coming back, all walking. “Looks like Tim knows how to win Kana’s heart, or her sweet bread, anyway.”

  
Tim never lost track of the two small loaves of bread as Heloise and Zarala took off his gear and cleaned him up. Donna had custody of the little cakes, but her command to stay held him rooted to the earth as if he had become a tree. After all had been done to Zarala’s satisfaction, Donna had the gelding run through some of his tricks. Zarala was particularly pleased, realizing that the bay would do his act for her, as well. The cakes were soon devoured by the ecstatic horse, who watched them carefully for any signs of further delicacies. As he finished the last crumb, and Heloise and Zarala took the tack back to the Skull Cave, Mandy Baker and her shadow arrived.

  
“Hey, Mandy,” greeted Donna, eyeing the pilot’s grimy hands and face. “Where have you been?”

  
“Away from you, as ordered,” the girl said with a groan. “Hard labor, to punish me for my sins. And I’ve just skipped several centuries in Purgatory, just by the grit in my hair. Donna McLaren, this is your collateral rescuee, Lt. Shunji Hayakawa of the Jungle Patrol. Shunji, the fiancée of the Ghost Who Walks.”

  
“I am very please to meet you,” said the young man, bowing in the European style, his accent American. “Most particularly in such circumstances as these. Far more comfortable than my last hosts made it, I assure you!”

  
Donna noticed that the young Asian American made the greatest effort to not see Kit, as if not acknowledging the purple giant might make him disappear. She smiled at the idea, and the lieutenant took it as a comment on his humor.

  
“And the both of you are okay, right?” she asked, seeing several bruises coloring nicely on both of them under the dirt. “You’re not going to miss the wedding or anything, are you?”

  
“Not after all that,” exclaimed Mandy, realizing how much she’d grown to admire the blond in the last few days. “That dress has got to be worn, after all, and Jula won’t let me have it if I don’t show up. But if I don’t get cleaned up in the next few minutes, I’ll never feel clean again. Come on, Shunji, let’s go scrounge some towels and go swimming.”

  
“You and I have no swimsuits,” he objected, as she grabbed his hand and headed toward the village. He cast one confused and helpless look back at Donna and the Phantom, then had to follow or risk loosing his footing.

  
“So what?” they heard Mandy say, as they neared the village. “You’ve already seen me naked. Didn’t you like what you saw?”

  
“You are not only an unreasonable boss, you’re a conniving matchmaker, too,” Donna said with a giggle to her fiancé. “Make the poor chap stick to her side and get him interested in her at the same time. His life will be an exciting one, I’d bet.”

  
“I hadn’t any thought of romance,” protested the Phantom mildly. “At least, not theirs. I just didn’t want all the trouble you’d gone to for Mandy to turn out to be for nothing. And I don’t think it’s so much him interested in her, as the other way round.”

  
“Well, what happens, happens,” sighed Donna, suddenly very tired. “We’ll know it’s going well if she brings him to the wedding as her date. I think I’m ready to go in, now, lover. I feel like a shower and a nap. Do I have time before dinner?”

  
“Of course, darling,” he told her, summoning Hero with a whistle. He picked her up out of the hammock and mounted the kneeling stallion with her in his arms. “One shower, coming up.”

  
“What are you doing, you wonderful man?” she asked, as, without saddle or bridle, he rode Hero to the waterfall that concealed the entry to the Deep Woods. “Oh, I didn’t mean it had to be a shower, Kit!”

  
“But that’s what you said,” he smiled down at her. “Don’t worry, you’ll be dry by the time we get back.”

  
“Oh, Kit, you are spoiling me,” she sighed, feeling the cool mist of the waterfall’s edge, where they stopped, still inside the cavern, out of the full force of the torrent. “You and Hero didn’t need to get wet.”

  
“We’ll dry just as fast as you do, dear,” he told her, kissing her warm, eager mouth. “Hero rather likes getting wet. So do I, if I’m with you.”

  
“Tim doesn’t,” she said as she kissed him again. “Look.”

  
Behind them, watching anxiously, was the bay gelding, ears twitching, his feet just barely in the edge of the pool formed by the waterfall. He made an almost soundless nicker of inquiry, pawing slightly with one foot.

  
“Better take me home, darling,” Donna told him, arm around his waist, one hand on his chest. “I need a nap, I think, and Tim’s worried we’ll go past this wall of water and he’ll have to follow me.”

  
“If you have a nap now,” he asked, turning the stallion with his knee and urging him back past the gelding, “will you be able to sleep tonight?”

  
“I don’t intend to sleep tonight,” she told him smugly. “And neither should you, my stallion.”

  
“Oh, Donna, you’re so insatiable,” he laughed, caressing her damp thigh. “You must have worn out your previous lovers. Are they all monks now?”

  
“Uh, one’s a vet, one’s in the army, and I think one’s still in school,” she said, her head pillowed on his muscular chest and shoulder. “I never, ever lusted after them the way I do you. When I think of them now, it’s hard to believe I ever thought of them as sexy. Like the difference between a lesson horse and Hero. Seemed exciting and racy at the time, learned a lot, but now I don’t even recall their faces. I think one’s name was John, but I don’t really remember with you right here against me, touching me.”

  
The afternoon sunlight dried them as they rode, walking around the village to get to the Cave, Tim following. The warmth of the day was nothing to the warmth the Phantom felt at his lover’s words, and he, too, felt eager for the evening. He halted the white horse just outside the cave and slid from the broad back to the ground, landing so lightly that the woman he held was not jarred. He put his drowsy lover to bed after taking off her damp bikini, and left her to nap, Devil on guard, the lights low.

  
He spent the rest of the afternoon arranging to meet Sam Baker at Catch Devil Beach, and talking to his sister. The Jungle Patrol lieutenant and Mandy Baker had gone swimming, only to emerge, hours later, with dazed looks on both their faces. From the debris in their hair and the smudges of dirt on their bodies, the Phantom and his sister deduced that swimming had not been their only activity. Certainly, remarked Heloise, it had not been good, clean fun.


	34. Chapter 34

Devil trotted from the cavern as the dinner feast was beginning, and barked at his master. The Phantom, expecting this, gathered up Muzi and a tray full of food, and followed the wolf back into the bedroom. Here, Muzi pronounced Donna recovered, but warned her to take things easy for a while.

  
“Rest often, drink often, eat a little here, a little there,” the gray-haired woman told her, a twinkle in her eyes. “Don’t try too hard, or force yourself to do anything. In a week, you can start that sort of thing again, but not now.”

  
“Yes, ma’am,” Donna said humbly. “I’ll do my best. I can walk around on my own again?”

  
“Yes, if you want to,” said the pygmy midwife, seeing the relieved smile on the Phantom’s face.

  
“Then please excuse me for a moment,” said Donna in a rush, and disappeared into the bathroom.

  
“Well, she’s moving nicely,” commented the healer, seeing the steadiness of her patient’s gait. “No balance impairment, or visual difficulties.”

  
“What’s that mean?” asked the Phantom anxiously. “Did you expect some?”

  
“No, no, just the rare side effects that may occur with head injuries,” said Muzi off-handedly. “What it means is that she didn’t fall down or run into the wall, so she’s probably all right. If anything like that happens in the next few days, I need to know right away, young Phantom. But I don’t expect it.”

  
“Oh,” he said, relieved again. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Muzi. I’ll do that.”

  
“I know you will,” laughed the small woman, her beads and fringe clicking softly while she moved. “Good night to you both.”

  
Donna emerged to find both Devil and her doctor gone, and her lover setting down a cup of juice on top of the chest that held the tray. He laughed when she sat on the floor beside it, and copied her. They ate with little conversation, each exquisitely aware of the other, letting their desire build. Donna wore only a silken robe, reflecting that it’s sensuous feel could not equal that of the man beside her.

  
He watched her as she nibbled daintily at her food, and thought as she did that he must be careful, no matter what Muzi, or even Donna herself, said. The purple silk slid provocatively over her body, the open front an invitation and suggestion at once.

Silently, with a kiss to her forehead, he took the tray outside as they finished. She was sitting on the edge of the bed when he returned, a satisfied smile on her face as he took his mask and hood off. He undressed with unselfconscious efficiency, as if she were not there, except that his gray eyes never left her. Their long anticipation had only sharpened their desire, and for several hours they made love, exhaustive, tender, careful and abandoned by turns. They both proved to their mutual relief that Donna was fully functional, not in the least incapacitated in any way, and just as capable of taking and giving pleasure as before her injury. The couple was sated at last, and thoroughly pleased with each other, laying atop the bed in a tangle of limbs and hair, panting and damp, content to feel each other’s heartbeat, stroking hands and radiant warmth.

  
Her scent was a perfume without equal, he found, even now, when he could barely maintain his waking state. Her hair, silken soft and the color of dark honey in the dim lamplight, spilled across his chest and shoulder like a fairy blanket. Even when she sighed deeply, he didn’t move, unwilling to break the enchantment of her soft body on his own.

  
“Are you asleep, Kit?” she said softly, so softly that he felt it through her body more than heard it.

  
“Yes,” he said in her ear, almost as softly. “I’m having a wonderful dream. Don’t wake me up.”

  
“Is it about a tall, accident-prone kiwi?” she asked, feeling his voice in her bones.

  
“No, an amazon warrior, with hair like red-gold, who loves with the same skill she shows in battle,” he told her, memorizing the scent of her hair, her sweat, her sex. “A woman who smells like perfume and tastes like candy, whose skin feels like flower petals, and whose voice is a rainbow.”

  
“You are dreaming,” she said, flattered. “Either come to bed, or let’s go get clean. I’m tired enough, and relaxed enough, to sleep even smelling like an orgy. You, Kit, could start one, if you ever walked by a bunch of women in this state. I adore the way you feel, taste, smell, faintly salty, but utterly masculine, like battles won, challenges met.”

  
“You’re delirious,” he told her, unwilling to move until she did. “But you sure are a handful. I’ve run marathon distances that didn’t make me this tired, this relaxed, this spent. When you feel healthy, I’m going to be in serious trouble.”

  
“Yes, you will,” she purred, snuggling up under his left arm. “A conditioning program with some serious motivation, don’t you think?”

  
“Motivation for whom?” he asked, rolling off of the bed with her in his arms and setting her on her feet. “I’ve got all the motivation I need standing in front of me.”

  
“Ah, come to the bath with me, gorgeous,” she said, holding out a hand to him. “I like the way you smell, but not the way I do.”

  
“No, Donna,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her into his arms. “Just come to bed. We can bathe tomorrow. Do all New Zealanders have this fanatic cleanliness drive? You take a bath every time you turn around.”

  
“Maybe because so many of us work with sheep, fish or horses,” said Donna thoughtfully to his shoulder, “yes. And the humid weather makes me feel as if I should, each time I do anything.”

  
“I like the way you smell, darling,” he told her, drawing in her fragrance. “Indulge me, please?”

  
“Oh, since you ask so sweetly,” she said, feeling her back protesting up near her shoulders. “I admit, I’m not certain I could get there and back by myself.”

  
“Good,” he said, caressing her hair with a smile on his rugged face. “I don’t know how far I’d get, really. And tomorrow we get rid of Mandy, Hayakawa and Heloise, all at once. I need sleep for that.”

  
“Then come to bed, o Ghost Who Walks,” said Donna, laying down on the sheets of the vast bed. “I’ll tell you the story of my Great Aunt Ofelia and the Lion, if I can stay awake long enough.”

  
“No need to play Scheherazade for me tonight, my lady Donna,” he said, taking his place beside her and pulling the covers over them both. “If I stay awake longer than it takes me to say your name three times, I’ll be surprised.”

  
“Pleasant dreams, then,” yawned Donna, as he pulled her close, gently cautious of her head, even now.

  
“Already my dreams come true,” he whispered, tucking her body next to his, warm, willing and asleep. He slept an instant later.

  
The next morning he woke her gently, kissing her neck below her injury. She let him nuzzle her and caress her, but when his fingers began to tickle her ribs, she bounded out of the bed to escape him. Turning to glare at him, hands fisted on her hips, she could not keep her face straight for long, he looked so pleased with himself.

  
“Kit!” she exclaimed, with a smile. “Don’t do that! I hate being tickled.”

  
“Well, you weren’t getting up,” he pointed out, sitting on the edge of the bed and stretching. “I need to take the trio to Catch Demon Beach this morning. If there’s no problems, I should be back by late tonight. I’d let just Heloise go with them, but someone needs to bring the horses back. I’m meeting with some of the Oogaan and Mori scouts there to check that the Mussanga have really left, but that shouldn’t take long.”

  
“Just push me out of bed next time,” she grumbled, tossing him a robe and pulling on her own. “I’m just not a morning person, I guess. I’m going to go run hot water over my personality and see if I can clean it off. Coming?”

  
“Yes, dear,” he said, putting on the dressing gown. “Can you think of anything you want Heloise to bring you when she comes back?”

  
“Yes, but nothing I want you to know about,” said Donna with a grin, as they sauntered toward the bath grotto. “I’m practicing my surprises.”

  
“I see,” he said thoughtfully, as they plunged into the almost tepid water. “I’ll await results with patience, then. What are your plans for the day, while I’m gone?”

  
“Oh, look in on the library,” said Donna, scrubbing herself with efficient speed. “Maybe read a few more of your cases. Teach Zarala a bit more about the trot. I wish you didn’t write your diary in such a big book, Kit. I’d love to lie in that hammock most of the day and read about you. It’s better than those James Bond books.”

  
“What kind of books does he write?” asked the Phantom, firmly controlling his reactions to his wife, or close, as she bathed. He quickly made himself clean and exited the pool, toweling himself off to distract his body.

  
“James Bond is the main character,” Donna explained, watching him as she rinsed her hair. “He’s a spy, a secret agent, for the British Government. A super secret agent, really. You know, Agent Double-O-Seven, licensed to kill, on her Majesty’s Secret Service and all that. Very racy, romantic, thrillers, most of them. Quite far-fetched, really.”

  
“Sounds more like Heloise than I,” he told her, rubbing his hair into a tossing crown of curls. “She’s the one with agents and spies. I’ll be here only long enough to get them all moving, and if I know my sister, the horses are being saddled right now. Shall I kiss you goodbye now, or will you make it outside in time to just wave?”

  
“Slave driver,” she growled at him in mock anger. “I’ll be in before you finish dressing. Don’t you dare leave until I have a word with your sister.”

  
“Better hurry, then, Donna,” he warned, as he vanished down the hallway. She did, but he was leaving the bedroom as she was entering. She snatched up a shirt and shorts, and ran out to the clearing barefoot and with wet hair. The saddled geldings were just being led up for Mandy and the Patrolman, who seemed quite the couple this morning.

  
The Phantom watched as his fetchingly disheveled lover held a whispered conference with his sister, then flung herself at him. She clung there around his waist until everyone else was mounted, then kissed him almost in desperation.

  
“Donna, I’m only going to be gone until this evening,” he said, after a few minutes. “Tomorrow we’ll go out on a ride by ourselves, alright?”

  
“You wake me when you get back, Kit,” she told him, wishing he could stay. Heloise was leading the other two away, knowing that Hero could easily catch up. “I’m sorry I was such a grump earlier.”

  
“That’s alright, dear,” he told her with a grin. He twisted into Hero’s saddle with that strange grace. “I’ll wake you differently next time!”

  
Donna felt lonely as she watched his little cavalcade disappear, at least until Zarala handed her a banana. Eating the fruit, Donna and the tiny girl went to find Tim, Donna feeling less springy than normal, but well enough. The morning lesson went well, Zarala now more confident about the trot. Donna began to think more about progressing to the canter. They finished well before the hottest part of the day began, and Donna decided it was time to inspect the Library. Zarala had chores to do for her mother, and departed reluctantly, but only on Donna’s promise to do nothing strenuous.

  
“I’m going to the Library,” laughed the New Zealander. “I promise not to pick up any really big books, right?”

  
“Alright,” agreed Zarala reluctantly. “Shall I bring you lunch?”

  
“Sure, if you want,” agreed Donna. “I’ll either be in the Library, or in the hammock, I think. If I can find a good book, I’ll probably take my siesta in it.”

  
“Siesta?” asked Zarala, delaying her departure for as long as possible. “What’s that?”

  
“Spanish for nap!” laughed Donna, shooing her shadow on her way.

  
Tula smiled at her as she came into the Library, but let her explore on her own. Donna appreciated the chance to discover the wonders of the Phantom’s library without distraction. Here were books about Bengalla, there treatises on farming. Now she found tomes on the artwork of Asia, now that of Africa. The look of one shelf caught her eye, and she found original folios of Shakespeare’s plays, priceless to any museum or collector. Another shelf held original editions of Dumas, Dickens, Tolstoy and many others. Donna chose a book about the local tribes of Bengalla, written only fifty years ago, and with Tula’s smiling permission, went off to her hammock to read, feeling very decadent.

  
Unfortunately, the hammock proved far more difficult to master than she had thought. Her first and second attempts landed her on the grassy earth beneath. Her third try got her in the contraption, but her book and both pillows on the ground. In attempting to retrieve these objects, she joined them once again. By this time, she was laughing uncontrollably at herself, and almost decided to remain where she was. But the old adage about being thrown from a horse and getting back on stuck in her mind, and she finally managed to recline, somewhat disheveled, in triumph.

  
“Now I know why people sleep in these things,” she said to herself. “They exhaust themselves just getting in.”

  
Left to herself, she spent almost an hour on the book, written by a member of the colonial government. He had never actually been further into the jungle than the Oogaan and Mori territories, but had carefully collected and annotated every fact, rumor and myth he had ever heard. There was an entire chapter on the Deep Woods and it’s mysterious guardians. Donna read that first.

  
The author, a minor beauracrat, but a major authority on documentation, had set down everything that Donna’s old professor had known. Professor Archer actually had a more skeptical and scientific outlook, but the author, Desmond P. Hallsworth, Esq., had dismissed most of the Phantom stories as a superstitious demi-religion. Professor Archer had at least believed that there was a basis for the rampant tales. Hallsworth, Donna concluded, had only put down the stories out of thoroughness. He had also dismissed the tales of tree-dwelling savages as myth, and Donna had seen them for herself.

  
Nonetheless, Donna did read about some of the other tribes, Byangi, Tirangi, and several mentions of Mussanga. The story Kit had told her about the tigers and elephants was included, as was mention of the Whispering Grove. The Bandar were mentioned as the minor, assistant bogeymen of the major nightmare Phantom.

  
“The natives believe this nonsense with a faith that surpasses reason,” she read. “I have been shown hoof marks and a small imprint of a skull as proofs. When one desperate criminal was shot by his accomplices during a dispute in the jungle, his appearance at the gate of the Jungle Patrol compound was attributed to their mysterious demi-god.” In the margin was a scribbled note in a light brown ink. “No accomplices.”


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural gift and hammock

Donna fell asleep in the shade with the book in her lap, and only woke when Tim nosed her almost two hours after noon. She scratched his ears fondly as he lipped at her hair, noticing that he had been eating what had been intended as her lunch. Crumbs and a smear of juice were all that remained of the meal that had lain on the folding tray nearby.

  
“You decided it was fair game, Tim?” she asked as he got what smelled like guava juice in her hair. “That’s alright, I don’t mind. I know where there’s more. Get back, Tim, this could be dangerous.”

  
Her exit, now that she’d mastered the thing, was far less dramatic than she had feared. She took the book back to the librarian, and found Tula expecting her.

  
“And did old Hallsworth tell you anything?” asked the older woman, her garb today a brilliant emerald. “He was thorough, but biased.”

  
“He did seem a bit of a prig,” admitted Donna, a smile at his opinions on independence for Africans on her face. “And a bit bigoted, as well.”

  
“Not an unusual attitude for the time,” sighed Tula. “Don’t forget this, Lady Donna.”

  
“What?” said Donna in surprise. “You don’t want the book back?”

  
“No, not the book,” laughed Tula. “This amulet thing. It was on my desk after you left. That’s how I know it’s yours.”

  
Donna felt a cold hand down her spine as she saw what Tula held out to her. It seemed to eyes like Tula’s to be an innocent green jade carving on a loop of rawhide thong. Donna knew better, having seen that piece before.

  
“Was it there before I came in?” she asked carefully, trying to stay calm. Why did Kit have to be gone now, she wondered desperately.

  
“No, Lady Donna,” said Tula, puzzled. “Why? What is wrong? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  
In spite of her shock and trepidation, Donna found this comment very funny. Of course she had seen a ghost, slept with one, even. But he was solid, and not only living, but the livest thing she’d ever met. If what she suspected were true, fantastic as it was, ghosts, alive or dead, were the least of her problems.

  
“Worse than that, Tula,” said Donna after a short round of hiccuping laughter. “This is a Maori _heitiki_ , or tiki for short, of the Atuamoana Apakura, the sea goddess. As far as I know, it should still be among the collection of his estate, the _tohunga_ Temotu, who died in front of me and Kit.”

  
“Are you sure it is the same one?” asked Tula in a calming voice. “The Phantom rode out long before you came in this morning. He could not have put it there, nor anyone but you, or I. I had cleared the desk just before you came to show me the book you had chosen, so it was not there then.”

  
“If Kit didn’t put it there, and you didn’t put it there, and I didn’t put it there,” said Donna with a frown, “how did it get there?”

  
“Are you sure this is the same object?” repeated the pygmy librarian calmly. “And what is a ‘ _tohunga_ ’ ?”

  
“It’s the same piece,” affirmed Donna, pointing at a tiny line of white through the lower third of the piece of green stone. “That’s almost impossible to duplicate in New Zealand jade. And it’s not a common carving, as the sea gods were often vengeful, particularly the summer goddess of the sea, Apakura. She was a goddess of vengeance and death, as well as the sea. She was the one the souls of the unjustly dead turned to for justice.”

  
“Ah,” said Tula thoughtfully. “And the _tohunga_ Temotu, besides being dead was? . .”

  
“A professor of Maori Studies at my school, one of my teachers and a friend,” said Donna, trying not to see his death again in her mind. “He was a priest or shaman of the Maori people.”

  
“Then you need to see another with such skills,” Tula told her, closing Donna’s hand around the amulet. “Go find Dandoli, Lady Donna. He will try to help you understand what this means. He was tribal shaman long before he gained skill in modern medicine.”

  
“Where shall I look?” asked Donna, her lunch forgotten. All the worries she had had before about the spirit world were returning. Next thing you know, she thought, I’ll run into one of those sword-wielding immortals Kit told me about.

  
“Just go out into the village and ask the first person you see,” advised Tula, not at all upset. Spirits and ghosts, as any Bengallan could tell you, were not all bad, as white folk often seemed to think. “Then, when you find him, tell him what has happened.”

  
“And he’ll be able to tell me what’s going on?” asked Donna, still worried.

  
“You can only ask,” the librarian told her, escorting her to the mouth of the Skull Cave. Donna went off to see the wizard, or so her perverse mind kept repeating, the carved jade clutched in her fist. Fortunately, this shaman was indeed much like her friend Temotu, not the Emerald City fraud of the movie. Small, yet active, the old man was a reassuring, fatherly figure, wise and kind, with a wry sense of humor and an insatiable interest in people and their problems.

  
“Lady Donna,” he asked with some severity, “what is it that you fear? An amulet of this sort, while perhaps cursed, can easily be disposed of. Tell me why you are so worried about this transference. Do you fear your dead teacher?”

  
“No, Professor Temotu was my friend,” said Donna slowly, as they sat by the hammock. Dandoli had taken her to a place she would feel relaxed in. “And I fulfilled his last wish, with Kit’s help. Even if he was causing this, he wouldn’t mean me any harm.”

  
“Then what worries you?” asked the old man, genuinely puzzled. “He has sent you a gift, no doubt at great spiritual expense.”

  
“Uh, before he died, he told me I was a, well, a sort of container for the spirit of the sea goddess, Apakura, also called the Atuamoana. And as he was dying, he asked me to avenge him, but he addressed me as the goddess. Apakura is the one who brings vengeance for the dead, the one who takes the spirits of the dead to the afterlife. She’s very ferocious and merciless, not at all kind, usually, at least to the living.”

  
“He said you were a channel to a deity?” asked Dandoli in mild interest. “That’s not unheard of, you know, nor even very dangerous. A deity takes great care of it’s channel, particularly if the channel acts in the interests of the god. You may be what we in my business call a medium, able to be used by similar spirits to communicate with the living.”

  
“But, uh, what if I don’t want to be a conduit for spirits?” asked Donna, thinking of stories of possession. “What if an evil spirit decides to use me, say against Kit?”

  
“No spirit of an evil sort can use a good medium,” the old shaman told her with certainty. “Even a deity can’t use you without your cooperation. This Atuamoana, though somewhat fierce, seems basically benevolent. We can check, if you like.”

  
“What? We put in a telephone call?” asked Donna, still not reassured. “And what if I’m not really a good person? What if I only think I am?”

  
“Oh, you’re a good person,” chuckled the old witch doctor. “Only a good person would worry about such a thing. And to some degree, it is like a telephone call. We put you in a trance, and open the path to the spirit world. If a spirit wishes to use the path, it may. You can reject the spirit at any time, and many do, out of unease, fear or dislike. It is often difficult even for one of my calling to leave the channel open, and I am trained for it.”

  
“Well, can I just ignore it and go on with my life?” asked Donna hopefully. “I mean, isn’t Kit enough spirit for anyone?”

  
“I would recommend against it,” the old man told her seriously. “It would be best to know why the god, or a ghost, sends you a token. Often it is because something needs the god’s attention, and subtler measures to get your cooperation have failed. The sending of a gift indicates some respect, you see. A god could just send a fever, or dreams, or even spirit messengers, such as ghosts.”

  
“How do I, um, call up a god?” asked Donna, nervous but determined. “That sounds awfully presumptuous. Surely Apakura, or the other Atuamoana, Tangaroa, have other people to serve them, don’t you think? At least someone better than a _pakeha_ woman who isn’t even near Aotearoa anymore.”

  
“It is best that we wait for a few days, I think,” the old shaman told her reluctantly. “You are not yet fully recovered from your injury, and a medium needs some strength. Also, if we were to try before the Ghost Who Walks returned, I would likely soon join the spirit world!”

  
“Oh,” said Donna, partly relieved that she wouldn’t have to do it right away, partly wishing she could get it over with. “Is there anything I should do to prepare? You know, fast or bathe with sage or something?”

  
“No, not really,” he smiled, his old face looking like a kindly prune. “Fasting is just to prevent the frequent end result of throwing up. If you don’t eat, you’ll just have dry heaves, and be hungry beforehand. I don’t think you eat enough as it is. You are too skinny.”

  
“That’s Tim’s fault,” explained Donna, blushing. “He ate my lunch while I was asleep. Zarala left it, and I guess he figured I’d had my chance.”

  
“It is not the fault of your horse all the time,” the old man pointed out. “Here is Zarala, she can show you where to find people willing to replace your lunch.”

  
“Hi, Zarala,” Donna greeted her friend. “Tim ate my lunch, and the _tohunga_ says you can help me find something to eat.”

  
“ _Tohunga_?” asked the tiny girl, puzzled. “You mean Dandoli?”

  
“That’s Maori for priest or shaman,” Donna told her as the old man bowed to her and walked off in thought. “He’s a lot like my old teacher, the _tohunga_ Temotu, who was killed by the Walton Ripper. Kit and Tim and I caught the woman who was doing it, did it, I mean. Today I found this.”

  
“What is it?” asked Zarala, thinking it pretty. Donna explained about the pendant and her problem. “You need food to think properly, Lady Donna. Come with me.”

  
Later, stuffed with rice pudding, banana bread and mangoes, Donna and Zarala rode Tim down to the bathing pool. Donna and all the children who were there, perhaps ten or more, had fun sitting on the patient horse’s back, then sliding off his slick hide when he moved. Donna had to reclothe herself soon, but the others could have played with her horse for hours.

  
Donna felt tired as her hair dried, sated with food and the heat, and left Zarala in charge of the horse, ambling back to the Cave alone. Inside, she again visited the Library, where Tula, informed of the problem, dropped what she was doing and found Donna a book that related to her difficulty. An obscure Eighteenth Century volume on the subject of spirit guides, it had a scrawled note in the front that read ‘adequate,’ in a firm hand. Why, she wondered briefly, had a Phantom needed or wanted such a book, and why judged it so? She went back to the hammock with the slim volume, titled ‘Channeling Your Spirit Guides.’

  
She actually managed to finish the book, written in a rather terse, unpoetic style, before falling asleep, although Zarala’s return helped. The tiny girl insisted that the tall blond eat dinner with her family that night, and returned the book to the library for her. Dinner was delicious, a roast of wild pig and a variety of side dishes that Donna was gradually learning to identify by sight, if not by name. That night she passed over her Phantom’s adventures for that of his ancestor whose handwriting matched the book review.

  
This Phantom, whom she could only see as Kit, had an entirely different encounter with the spirit world than she had had. He was apparently haunted by the spirit of his dead father, the Phantom before him. And, to make matters yet more difficult, it seemed that every Phantom was able to speak to his immediate predecessor. Haunting was not the proper word, she decided to herself, after a description of the recently-killed Phantom giving details of his death to his heir. It was more of a visit, a family curse, turned, as Kit’s family somehow managed so often, into a blessing. She wondered if Kit, her Kit, had the same visions.

  
She went to sleep in the big bed that night, again alone and dreamed about her lover introducing her to a ghostly version of himself. A dark-haired woman was also there, and the conversation was strange, in a language she didn’t know, or couldn’t remember afterwards. Before things got truly strange, her fiancé woke her by sliding under the covers next to her. Donna dreamed no more that night, but it was one of the first things she spoke to him of after their morning lovemaking.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions of the supernatural and visit to Keelawee Beach

“Heloise, Mandy and Shunji get off alright?” she asked, as they bathed in luxurious heat. “No problems?”

  
“No, Sam and his technicians had Mandy’s plane almost fixed by the time we got there,” he told her, eyes closed as she soaped his body in the pool’s shallow end. “The Oogaan scouts told me the tracks the Mussanga left indicated speed, if not terror. The Mori haven’t seen a sign of them, either.”

  
“That’s good,” she said thoughtfully, rinsing him off. “What did your father say about it?”

  
“My father is dead,” he reminded her after a brief hesitation. “Remember?”

  
“Well, I had a little, uh, problem yesterday,” she told him, and detailed the previous day’s manifestation. “I just wondered if you can see your father the way the Fifteenth, or whoever it was, could.”

  
“Uh, well, sometimes,” he admitted reluctantly, as they dried off. “I didn’t want to tell you, mostly because it sounds so crazy.”

  
“Kit, I’m in love with a man who runs around in the Twentieth Century wearing skintight, bright purple silk, a mask and guns,” she laughed. “And who takes on killers, singly or in groups, all by himself. Why would one more little quirk make me think you’re over the edge?”

  
“I don’t know,” he said, smiling at her as they dressed, finding himself relieved that she knew. “It’s not something we advertise. Even Guran doesn’t know. I don’t think Mom knew.”

  
“She didn’t have a god waiting to take her over, either,” grumbled Donna as they walked out into the village green, their riding gear in their arms. Donna had awakened earlier and in a much better mood that morning, so they were going riding in good time. Zarala helped with Tim, even if she couldn’t ride him, and had brought them bread. For Tim, mostly, the Phantom suspected. She told them she would study while they were gone.

  
“All day?” asked Donna, feeling a little guilty at the idea of the girl doing homework while she had a holiday.

  
“I’m afraid it takes almost all day for me to memorize a new chemical compound,” confessed the tiny ten-year-old. “I’m not that good at physics, yet, either. But I try to think of them as horse-related, and it seems easier.”

  
“Oh, well, yes,” said Donna, impressed. She tried to remember what she had been studying at that age, and knew it hadn’t been chemistry and physics. “Motivation is important. You never know when something will come in handy.”

  
“That’s what Miss Tamaru says,” sighed Zarala. “But she’s been right so far. Jokan’s actually much better at applied physics and mathematics, but he helps me sometimes.”

  
“See,” Donna told her friend, as she mounted Tim. “I told you, you have to know what you’re good at. And I didn’t start that kind of study until I got to the upper forms, so you’re ahead of me there!”

  
“I’ll bet you’re still ahead of her, too,” commented the Phantom, mounting Hero easily. “Her course of study was the arts, not the sciences.”

  
They rode away with the girl gaping after them in amazement. She, ahead of her adored Lady Donna?

  
“Where are we going, dear heart?” asked Donna a few moments later, Tim high-stepping in delight to have her on his back once more. “I don’t care, you understand, I’m just curious. Or are we just following Devil?”

  
“I thought we’d go to Keelawee Beach,” he told her, enjoying her grace on the dancing bay. “Picnic, go for a swim, see the area. Do you snorkel?”

  
“Ah, Kit,” she groaned. “I didn’t bring my suit. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  
“I didn’t figure you’d need a suit,” he said, grinning at her comical expression. She seemed torn between delight and outrage. Delight won out.

  
“Okay, lover, but you have to let me know if I start to burn.”

  
“Don’t worry, my lady,” he said as they came out of the hidden pathway into the true jungle. He waved at a Bandar warrior, who appeared briefly as they passed. “I’ll treat your skin like my own. Better than my own, I should say.”

  
“And yes, I snorkel, and swim, and even scuba dive, if I have the equipment,” she told him, as they trotted down a narrow game trail, the sun making bars of light as it filtered down to them. Devil seemed to be flickering as he went down the trail ahead of them. “I’m a Kiwi, after all. Water is a challenge to us, not an enemy.”

  
“So your Maori goddess seems to think, anyway,” he commented. A tree full of brightly colored birds exploded as they approached, making Tim shy just a little, but not enough to bother his rider. Devil had sent them up, but paid them no attention.

  
“And that doesn’t bother you?” Donna asked with some annoyance. “It sure bothers me!”

  
“It worries me a bit, but not so much as it seems to be doing to you,” he told her, ducking a low-hanging branch that moved out of the way before she got to it. A boa, and a big one, Donna realized. They came onto a wide section of what Donna recognized as an old road bed, and moved to ride beside each other. The two horses took up an easy, slow canter. Devil bounded along with his tongue hanging.

  
“So, have you talked to your father lately?” Donna asked, relaxing into Tim’s gait. “About me, or my problem?”

  
“I did hear from Dad about you,” he admitted with some reluctance. “I can talk to him, and he talks back, but I don’t see Mom much, and when I do, she doesn’t say anything. I can’t really call him up, like a dog, though. He just shows up, sometimes at very awkward moments. To me, he looks and sounds real, but no one else sees or hears him.”

  
“And does your father, um, approve of me?” asked Donna, feeling nervous. After all, Kit’s father could say things to Kit that she couldn’t even hear, what if he didn’t like her?

  
“I’d say ‘approve’ would be too mild a term,” said the Phantom judiciously. “His exact words were ‘What a dish, boy. Don’t let her get away or I’ll never forgive you.’ And Mom nodded, which is a lot more than I usually get from her.”

  
“Uh, I’m flattered, I guess,” gulped Donna, unnerved at how much attention spirits paid to her. You couldn’t see them, how did you know if they were, well, watching you?

  
“Umm, they didn’t, uh, watch us when we were, you know, making out, did they?” she asked, her face as red as if she had sunburned it.

  
“Not that I know about,” he said cheerfully, amused by her sudden modesty. “I’m pretty sure Mom wouldn’t let Dad watch, even if he’d wanted to. Anyway, they’re dead, what possible concern is it to them, except to continue the Line? In which case, naturally, they’ll have to let us get on with it, won’t they?”

  
“Yeah, but it kind of gives me gooseflesh thinking about it,” Donna told him, still a little uncertain, but reassured. “Why does your mother show up for you? The Phantom I was reading about only mentioned his father.”

  
“Probably because my mother was so much more involved in the family business,” shrugged the masked giant. “Or maybe because she died with him. It’s not like they have a lot of rules to follow, I guess.”

  
“It does put a different slant on the origins of ancestor worship,” Donna admitted with a wry smile. “Do you suppose that’s how that happened?”

  
“Your anthropological training triumphs over the strange and bizarre once again,” he laughed, turning Hero off onto another pathway, narrower than the previous one, yet still wide enough to ride beside each other. Some ambitious branches brushed at them, but Kit would warn her if she should avoid one.

  
“No, that’s just odd, I guess, for your family,” Donna corrected, smiling at him as he grabbed a fruit out of the air that a startled monkey had dropped on them. “Now, the subject of my last term paper, that was strange and bizarre.”

  
They could hear the ocean, now, a sigh of surf nearby, though muffled by the forest. The road, for some reason, ended, and they now pushed their way through thick brush and vegetation, requiring all their concentration. Hero had an uncanny ability to find a path where all seemed solid, Donna saw. Tim stuck to the white’s tail like a burr, his breath often stirring the silver tail hairs. At last they won free, and Donna was enchanted by the view, not even noticing as Devil bounded out of the brush beside them and sat on the grass as if he had been there all along, waiting for them.

  
Wide, grassy areas, with a few tall, graceful palms, edged the riotous jungle, shading the almost lawnlike expanse. The beach was a nearly perfect crescent of sparkling sand, a glittering golden white, with a line of surf breaking on reefs far out in the dazzling blue of the sea. The tropical waters near the beach were a patchwork of azure and turquoise and emerald, inviting swimmers. Further along the beach was a curiously shiny structure, the only sign of habitation within view. They rode out onto the grassy sward and toward the greenish, shiny hut, walking along with only the sound of muffled hooves, surf and raucous birds in their ears. Devil padded along, tongue lolling, his pads making no sound at all.

  
“What an odd little house,” commented Donna, as they approached the object. “It looks almost like it’s made of greenstone.”

  
“It is,” the stallion’s rider told her calmly. “It was carved from a single piece of jade at the orders of the Emperor Joonkar. He spent his honeymoon here, and after his wife died, he gave it to my family. Most Phantoms have spent their first married night in it.”

  
“An entire house made of greenstone?” exclaimed Donna, impressed. “That’s pretty posh, that is. Maori artists would love the opportunity at such a big piece, as well.”

  
The intricate designs let in light, made doors and allowed privacy at the same time, or so it appeared to Donna. Set on the sparkling sand, it seemed a vision of Paradise, marred only by one thought.

  
“Kit, if we have the wedding here, it’s not going to be easy to escape for our honeymoon,” she said uncertainly. “I mean, we’ll be in plain sight, more or less.”

  
“Donna, I promised you an unspoiled, unpopulated, private honeymoon,” he told her fondly. “We’ll come back sometime without people, like this, and spend a night or two, if you want. Traditions like this are quaint, even pleasant, but not binding. Now, get off of Tim and we’ll let the horses eat while we do.”

  
“Can’t swim on a full stomach, lover,” Donna pointed out, slipping Tim’s bridle from his head and laying it across his saddle. “We should do that first, don’t you think?”

  
“Alright, my lady,” he said, having done the same courtesy for Hero. “I just thought you might want to rest a little before you test the waters.”

  
“No thank you,” denied Donna, as Tim tried the grass. “That water looks lovely. Are there sharks?”

  
“Not normally,” he said as she started to strip. “There’s a pod of dolphins that frequent the area. They’ve always been very friendly. There is fire coral, and a few stingrays, and occasionally jellyfish, however. I’d recommend you take a knife.”

  
“My knife?” she said, stopping with only her halter-top still on. “Won’t that ruin the sheath? And how do I carry it?”

  
“Don’t worry, dear,” he told her, digging in the sand inside the hut, against the seaward side. “I think I can fix that difficulty, and don’t worry about the leather. Ah, still here.”

  
He held up a pair of flippers, a very modern mask and snorkel, and several pieces of what looked like hay twine. They were all in a plastic bag, and looked as if they’d been buried the day before. He handed her the entire bag, and began to disrobe himself.

  
“Where’s your gear, then, Kit?” she asked, tying the twine to her sheath, and then to her leg. It was plastic, and was going to leave a funny tan mark, she knew, but if Kit thought she needed a knife, she’d wear it. And it might chaff, she thought, standing up, but it was only a minor irritation, easily ignored when she looked at her gloriously naked fiancé. “Oh, don’t tell me this is the only set.”

  
“Okay, I won’t,” he said agreeably, threading a piece of twine through the small slits of his own knife sheath. “Remember, the last time I was here, I’d never met you.”

  
“Is the current strong?” she asked as they walked down to the water’s edge, the fins and mask in her hands. “I’ll bet I won’t fit into your size fins, anyway. I’m not size enormous, after all.”

  
“The current is almost nonexistent,” he told her, as they waded into the gentle surf, rather like Botticelli’s Venus in reverse, he thought to himself. “I hadn’t thought about the size problem, darling. You don’t really need fins, I guess, but I like the extra mobility.”

  
“Then you might as well wear them,” she laughed, holding up one foot clad in a vastly oversized black fin. “I’ll just stay away from the reef, in the shallows. Time enough to go fish-watching, when I’ve got a proper tan. I will try the mask on, though.”

  
The big man rolled his feet into the fins with practiced ease, and enjoyed the sight of his wife-to-be in the sunlit water. She donned the mask and snorkel with competence, if not grace. Hair, it seemed, got in the way, if not wet and slicked back, which required interesting movements in the water.

  
“This is a good fit, anyway,” she said nasally, looking suddenly like an old pulp magazine monster. “Do we just splash around in the shallows, or do we have an interesting wreck or something to look at?”

  
“We don’t have time to go out to the wreck,” he told her seriously. “I don’t want you burnt, tired or carried off by the mermaids. There’s plenty of fish here in the shallows, and good visibility. If we splash around a little, the dolphins may come to see what’s going on. But we’re not out here for any longer than forty minutes. Your skin is too pale for more.”

  
“Okay,” she said with a smile beneath the black rubber mask. “But I don’t tell time well wearing only a knife, a mask and a couple of necklaces.”

  
“I’ll be more careful than you, darling,” he told her, swimming backward with lazy strokes of his fins. “Come on, no fair standing there all day.”

  
“Right,” she said, and slid forward, mask in the water, tube out of the very mild ripples. Not much chance of a swallow of saltwater here, she thought, admiring the underwater view of her lover’s body. Bright fish soon diverted her, some of them almost friendly, unconcerned with their naked bodies gliding through the crystal clear water.

  
Donna found the feel of warm, buoyant salt water on her naked skin sensual in the extreme, almost as erotic as her bronzed godling beside her. It was only moments, it seemed, before a swiftly moving gray torpedo arrowed beneath them both, followed by dozens of others, all making underwater shockwaves. Donna came to a surprised halt, treading water easily, as the dolphins raced around them in a giant circle, squealing in greeting. Kit tread water next to her, and whistled at them, and many of them imitated him, turning to look at the human couple with first one eye, then the other.

  
“Donna, meet the Keelawee dolphin tribe,” he said, laughing as one playful creature splashed him with its nose. “There’s a few small channels in the reef that they can enter. I’ve often seen them herd a big school of fish into the shallows and keep them here by blocking the reef. See the big male, there? Hold out your hand to him and be still for a moment.”

  
Donna did as she was told, delighted at the treat of actually meeting wild dolphins. The indicated porpoise, scarred and dark, edged up to her as if worried that he might scare her, like a skittish horse. She clucked to him as she would have to Tim, and he carefully took her hand in his open mouth. Though he had sharp, peg-like teeth, they didn’t even dent her flesh, and he let go quickly, as if to prove he could be trusted.

  
“He’s so graceful,” she lamented to her lover. “It’s almost embarrassing to be a human around them.”

  
The Phantom laughed and held out a hand to the big male, who slid under the hand with eager precision. Another big dolphin matched the first and suddenly her fiancé was hurtling down the lagoon with the pair dragging him by their dorsal fins. Donna watched in envy and amazement, until a sleek, rubbery hide brushed her skin.

  
Looking down, in startled surprise, she found two smaller gray shapes angling up under her arms. She let her hands curve as Kit’s had, and the two dolphins gleefully took her after the males. The power of the gray shapes under her hands was amazing, and she tried to keep her feet together to avoid interference with their thrashing flukes. Donna was lucky she was wearing her snorkel tube, or she would have had trouble breathing, their bow wake was so high. She could vaguely see that they had reached deeper waters, and had only one instant to take a deep breath as they half-leapt. Her pair of ocean-going steeds dove downwards for a little way, making her ears pop, then dragged her seemingly straight up.

  
She and her two playmates exploded into the air in a shower of white foam and spray, one going left, the other right, leaving Donna to the central arc. She landed with her toes still together, old gymnastic training holding her straight as she landed, submerged briefly, then surfaced, half-choked, spitting sea water, but ecstatic. She’d never imagined such a ride, and laughed as she floated on her back. Her twin engines took that as an invitation and began to jump over her in tandem, like some well-rehearsed marine park show.

  
“Enjoy your ride, dear heart?” called a voice nearby. She looked over to see her lover moving nearer at his own pace, the big males matching him. “They love to play.”

  
“That was such a kick, Kit,” she laughed, feeling two noses against her palms. “I’ll be getting jealous looks from Tim. How do I tell them I’ll burn if I play any longer?”

  
“I think they already know,” he told her, as the two smaller dolphins, probably females, nosed her over so that they could tow her again. “See, we’re going back to the beach.”

  
Donna reluctantly left the water, waving to the leaping, tail-walking pod as she walked up the slope toward the Jade Hut. The Phantom carried a lobster in one hand, his fins in the other, almost having to push her up the beach and into the shade. Donna was quick to collapse in tired delight on her back, then roll over to watch her lover.

  
“Clever creatures, dolphins,” she said with a giggle. “I think they knew I was about to burn. One of my friends at university thinks that they’re telepathic, but another insists that they just use their sonar like an x-ray machine. They used to have huge arguments over it. I just think they’re smarter than people.”

  
“They like to play, they eat well, they have a sense of humor,” her fiancé said, building a small fire to roast the dead lobster on. “Who needs hands with that kind of life?”

  
“I don’t care if they’re crashed aliens from Venus,” Donna sighed, utterly content to just lay there and watch him work. “They’re fun!”

  
“So the Bandar think, when they come here. And they’ve been helpful to me in the past, too,” he told her, laying the shelled creature directly on the burning twigs. “They once swam me all the way here from a mission that ended about four miles out to sea. I think I could have made it myself, except for the sharks. I was worried before they showed their noses, after that it was rather fun.”

  
“I read that one!” exclaimed Donna, amazed at the dolphins once more. “So that’s how it happened. You didn’t say how you were ‘assisted’ back to land, you word miser. You should give credit where it’s due, you know.”

  
“Okay, I’ll go back and annotate it,” he agreed, standing up, knife still strapped to his calf. Aside from that and his rings, he was nude, as beautiful as any Greek statue of a god, his perfect, browned form as muscled as a racehorse. He looked up the mild slope of grass at the two horses, then back down at his near-wife, and his smile nearly broke her heart.

  
“You stay here with our lunch, dear,” he told her, making a gesture to stay and guard to Devil. “I’ll go get us some fruit and a few plates. I won’t be gone more than a few minutes, alright?”

  
“As you please, o Lord of the Jungle,” she said with a grin. “You had better be back soon, or I’ll have my way with someone else!”

  
“Who?” he teased back. “Devil? Hero? Tim?”

  
“Maybe,” she said lazily, feeling her body tighten with desire for him. “Delay and find out!”

  
He was back very quickly, having gone only far enough into the jungle to find a pool of fresh water to rinse off with. He then broke off a bunch of ripe bananas, a small branch with tangerines, and cut several large banana leaves. He returned to his lover, dried off and hungry, though not necessarily for food.

  
“I say, Kit,” she said, sitting up in astonishment. “Who’s going to eat all that?”

  
“Oh, Hero and Tim will probably help,” he assured her, laying his armload on the grass near the fire. “That lobster smells done. Too bad there’s no butter, but they taste good without, too.”

  
“Smells delicious,” she admitted, as he laid the still shelled lobster on a set of twigs he’d made beside the fire. He carefully put out the tiny blaze as the shellfish cooled, and Donna enjoyed watching his expert, silent skill. “Lobster dinner in paradise. If we go by your theory of paying for our happiness, I’m in for a lot of trouble.”

  
“You can’t fight it,” he told her, cracking the shell and cutting the sweet meat in half with his knife. “And didn’t Dandoli tell you that gods take care of their tools?”

  
“Yes, but I can’t shake the feeling that, well, that they’ve got the wrong girl. What can I do that Apakura, a Maori goddess, needs me for?” Donna accepted her banana leaf with care, blowing on the steaming white meat. “And did she have a hand in hooking me up with you? Did she mean for Professor Temotu to be killed for some reason? It’s all very worrisome, Kit. You never know what a god really means to do, or why. Besides, I don’t like the idea of being a tool.”

  
“Wait and find out,” he advised, handing her a water gourd from his saddle. “But eat like a hog first. It’s really hard on your body to do what Dandoli proposes. Rather like running ten or twelve miles, except that your mind is tired, too.”

  
“Oh, God, Kit,” she groaned, her mouth full of lobster meat. She swallowed hastily. “Not again. Promise you’ll make love to me, even if I’m only able to ask. I wanted you so badly last time. Please, if I’m conscious, I’m serious.”

  
“You have a one track mind, dear heart,” he laughed, pleased. “You can’t really want to do that all the time. There are other things in life, you know.”

  
“Certainly there are, you gorgeous man,” she agreed, finishing her half of the lobster tail. “But you’re definitely the most fun, the most erotic, the most wonderful that I can think of. Can’t ride Tim all the time, nor can Zarala. I shouldn’t eat all the time, even if I could. I realize you probably have limits of your own, but that’s an experiment I’m saving for our wedding night.”

  
“Ouch,” he said with a smile, as she picked up a banana. “Well, if it won’t actually hurt you, I’ll consider it.”

  
“Good. Now, about your father and mother,” Donna said, watching his even, white teeth nibble at a tangerine, the juice trying to escape his lips. “I know they’re dead, but can you invite them to the wedding? And can they, uh, ask Professor Temotu to come as well? And thank him for the tiki he must have sent me?”

  
“The next time I see him, I guess I can,” he admitted, watching the banana she was eating slide into her full mouth, a shaft of soft white fruit consumed by her red lips. “Do you feel as if you’ll be recovered enough by tomorrow night for the, well, séance, for lack of a better term?”

  
“I’m a bit unclear, still, on what’s going to happen,” she temporized. “I mean, there’s lots of rituals for this sort of thing, just that I’ve read about. I don’t want to insult a god, or Dandoli, by using the wrong one. Should I take a sauna, paint myself blue, eat garlic, spill my blood, give up sex? The last is only an example of what is often done, not a possibility,” she added hastily.

  
“Just come in a clean robe or sarong,” he told her, envisioning her ‘spilling blood’ with revulsion. “You should be clean, and calm, if possible. Dandoli will give you a potion to drink and then sit you down on the ground, or a log. He’ll hypnotize you, so that your mind is open, then ask that spirits who would like to communicate with the living speak. I’ve seen the thing done several times, and sometimes nothing happens. Once, to my surprise, my father tried it out. He later told me that it requires a lot of strength from that side, too.”

  
“And what happens then?” she asked, feeling the salt on her skin making her vaguely sticky. Not the way to start making love, she thought, eyeing her lover.

  
“After whoever it is speaks for the spirit, and the spirit withdraws, the person is exhausted, drained, and often nauseous,” he told her, trying an avocado he’d picked. “I’ve seen people take days to recover, but some only take a few hours. Eating high-calorie foods, once the stomach settles, helps, as does lots of fruit juice. I’ve never seen anyone Dandoli worked with hurt, although I’ve heard of cases where people were injured by their, uh, guest.”

  
“Oh, that makes me a lot less nervous,” said Donna with resigned sarcasm. “Oh, well, I guess you shouldn’t keep a god waiting. Say, Kit, I need to rinse the salt off of me. Is there a stream around?”

  
“Sure,” he told her, gathering their lunch remnants. “See that pile of boulders way down at that end of the beach? With the driftwood piles? There’s a small pool there. Take Tim and let him drink while you’re at it, and Devil, if you don’t mind.”

  
“What are you going to be doing?” she asked him, standing and whistling for the gelding. Tim trotted over and nuzzled his mistress rather personally, the Phantom felt. The bay wondered where her pockets had gone, Donna guessed, amused.

  
“I’ll be cleaning up our trash and putting the swimming gear back,” he told her, admiring her grace as she swung up onto the broad brown back. “Don’t take long, you’ll burn for sure.”

  
“Fine,” she sniffed, teasing. “Be that way. But don’t forget, you owe me dessert!”

  
Tim turned and cantered obediently down the golden sands. She was quite a fetching sight, he decided as she rode away from him, Devil at the bay’s heels. When she’d gone from sight behind the driftwood, he did his chores and relaxed on the grass, watching Tim’s distant shape, hearing Hero nearby, and considering his wife-to-be with great satisfaction.

  
Donna soon came cantering back, not a scrap of tack on the easily moving bay. While she had been a very pleasant vision on her way down the beach, her muscled legs and thighs pale on the brown hide, her return was spectacular. The gelding’s pace made her breasts do very interesting things, her long legs around the brown barrel made him think of their other uses. Her hair was wet, but drying with her ride, and it glowed coppery in the sun. By the time she had dismounted next to him, he was almost ready to do a little riding himself.

  
“Ah, Kit,” she said with a grin, as he took her in his arms. “You do know how to greet a lady. And picnics with you are always so pleasant.”

  
Their lovemaking bored Tim, but Devil watched in fascination, going so far as to stick his cold nose into a place that it had definitely not been invited. Donna’s yelp of surprise startled everyone, the wolf included, who dodged away. 

  
“Oh, well, sorry, Devil,” she said, rolling off of her lover to the grass. “I wasn’t expecting that. Come back, I forgive you.”

  
“I don’t know if I do, yet,” the giant beside her said with a sigh. “You have a lot of muscle down there, Donna dear. You could probably do some damage if you aren’t careful.”

  
“Did I hurt you, Kit?” she exclaimed, turning to look at the prone form of her beloved, her hands buried in Devil’s ruff, his tongue licking her chin. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

  
“I’m fine, dear,” he told her truthfully. “But that’s a kind of vulnerable point for a man, especially in that condition. A grip like that, so sudden, well, it makes me a little nervous.”

  
The wolf was sniffing at them both, now, carefully without touching either one. Donna patted him, relieved to see her fiancé grin at her, not at all nervous looking. She gazed out on the deserted beach, its golden sands glittering to match the heavy chain she wore. It was the perfect place for the wedding, she decided, one hand scratching Devil’s ears, the other resting lightly on her lover’s shoulder.

  
“The beach is so metallic-looking,” she commented as they dressed. “There must be a lot of pyrite or mica in it. The wedding is going to be very scenic. Can Mandy and her father land inside the reef?”

  
“Yes, darling,” he assured her, his hood and mask concealing his twinkling gray eyes. “They’ve landed here before. And the sand on this beach is about half gold dust, not pyrite. Joonkar used to keep guards here to protect it, and it made him very wealthy. Few people believe the story now, so it needs no guards, these days.”

  
“My goodness,” said Donna in surprise. “Half of the whole beach? You weren’t joking about the horseshoes to my father, were you? You could buy every horse in New Zealand with that kind of wealth!”

  
“Donna, you’re amazing,” he laughed, shoving his knife back into his boot. “Other people would think of land, titles, castles or fancy jewelry, even making people do what they want, but not you. You estimate wealth in terms of the horses you could buy with it.”

  
“Why not?” she said, tying her bootlaces. “I live in a wonderful, exotic place, with fascinating people, in a beautiful setting. I’ve yet to see hardly any of it, and I have the only person I want. Money is a means to an end, I’ve always thought, not a goal. Too many people forget that, I think.”

  
“And the jewelry?” he prompted, calling Hero with a gesture.

  
“We’ve been over the jewelry issue,” she said dismissively. “Anyway, I’m wearing the biggest sapphire I’ve ever seen. What should I want? I can only ride one horse at a time. I can only love one man in my life. There isn’t anyone better than you, so all I need to do is keep you happy, right? I’ll admit, there’s a few things I’d like to have, but those aren’t things I need, just frills, luxuries, icing on the cake.”

  
“Is one of those frills learning Hero’s tricks?” he asked, the big white’s nose on his chest. “I need to make Hero understand that he’s to obey you, dear, if you need him to. Heloise rides him now and then, so he’s used to the idea of a woman giving orders. Hero, bow.”

  
The Phantom was actually more surprised than Donna at how quickly the stallion accepted her. Never overly friendly, the horse seemed to like his fiancée. He taught her how to make Hero lay down, so that an injured person could get on him, how to get him up afterwards, and how to ask for gaits with only voice commands. The stallion could also be commanded to go home, fetch help, defend his fallen rider, and several other useful tricks. Donna’s voice was different, but her scent was familiar, mingled with his master’s, and the stallion was willing to follow her orders. Tim watched carefully, often nosing Donna, or whuffling as if in comment, amusing the two humans a good deal. At last, the sun down far enough to come in under the trees, they saddled and bridled their horses, and reluctantly rode away from their little trysting place. The ride back, though, tired Donna more than she had expected, so she took a short nap before dinner.

  
Dinner was a feast, and Donna, giving up on getting her sarong on properly, instead wore it toga-style. The tribe demanded to hear her version of the Battle with the Mussanga, and she was forced to tell it, much to her embarrassment. The tribe, Old Man Moze included, was much impressed with her oratory style, for she used her gift for mimicry well. Having heard several versions already, the Bandar kept interrupting her to put in parts she had forgotten, or glossed over, as she thought of it. The tribe was used to this habit in their giant friend, and not surprised to find it in his future wife.

  
Somewhat to their disappointment, Donna fell asleep in Kit’s arms, almost as soon as she got into their bed. He held her for a long time, just thinking about the implications of a god trying to use his wife. It worried him more than he had let her know.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Séance with Maori goddess

The next morning, though they made love on awakening, it was still cool when they emerged ready for the day. Zarala’s lesson came early, and both were certain that enough progress had been made at the trot, so a canter was experimented with. Lunge line, saddle, bridle and other equipment waited in neat order at the paddock fence. The Phantom was down at the second village for some discussion about the crops, so Zarala had Donna to herself, mostly. Several children watched from the fence, not quite bold enough to try such a gait on the enormous Tim.

  
As Donna had promised the tiny girl, the canter was easier to learn than the trot, though the speed made it scary, at first. After she got over the sheer swiftness of the gait, Zarala quickly began to enjoy the much smoother pace. Tim behaved himself beautifully, and at the lesson’s end, without the line, Zarala and Tim made a perfectly precise circle around Donna at all three gaits in both directions.

  
“Well done, Zarala,” Donna praised, patting the bay’s damp neck. “And Tim, good boy.”

  
“Oh, Lady Donna, that is the most fun I ever had!” exclaimed the girl, hugging the bay’s neck as much as she could. “It’s so easy when he canters, like sitting on a tree limb in the breeze. Shall I walk him now?”

  
“Yes, a few times around the paddock should get him cooled down,” judged Donna, feeling the gelding’s chest. “I’ll get his food while you do that. What should we do then?”

  
“I have to get a book from the library,” Zarala told her idol. “One that doesn’t deal with horses.”

  
“Oh, that’s not a problem,” Donna assured her tiny friend. “Lots of good books in that library. I’ll go with you. I’d like to try another pass, too.”

  
Eventually, they appeared together before Tula, and were soon browsing the fiction section.

  
“The ‘Three Musketeers’ is good,” Donna told her friend. “So is ‘Treasure Island’ and the ‘Swiss Family Robinson.’ And this one, ‘King Solomon’s Mines.’”

  
“My favorite,” Tula said from behind them, “has always been ‘Tarzan of the Apes,’ even though it’s pretty silly in spots. And the ‘Mark of Zorro’ was good for a few hours of entertainment. Is that what you had in mind?”

  
“Just a little light reading,” agreed Donna, picking up the last named book. “I’ve always wanted to read the original.”

  
“What’s ‘King Solomon’s Mines’ about?” asked Zarala, looking it over. “It’s got a really interesting title.”

  
“It’s fantasy, adventure, in an African setting,” Donna said, hastily adding, “written by someone who’d never been to Africa, though. But really good fiction.”

  
“I’ll try that, then,” Zarala decided. If Lady Donna and Tula both approved of it, it couldn’t be that bad. Shortly, with lunch and drinks to hand, Donna lay on a pilfered zebra skin in her birthday suit in the area behind the paddock, Zarala in the shade nearby. A few more shades of color layered her skin, and a new story was filed into her memory when the Phantom found them, both in the shade by that time.

  
Donna was taking her customary siesta, asleep in the hammock, wearing her bikini, while Zarala plowed through the dated, but imaginative book she had chosen. The zebra skin was rolled up, ready to be returned to the cave. The Phantom took the skin and the book without disturbing her, and put them back in their proper places.

  
When Donna awoke, feeling quite refreshed and content with the world, except for that lingering doubt about gods, both Tim and Hero were saddled. She wondered what her lover intended, but felt up to whatever it might be.

  
“Go get dressed, dear,” the purple giant told her, a smile on his masked face. “We have to make sure Hero remembers his training. Maybe you can teach him dressage.”

  
“What’s Tim going to do?” she asked, after a very quick change. “Rescue me if Hero takes exception?”

  
“No, he and I are going to practice dressage, with Dr. Dorn’s help,” the Phantom told his lover. “I think I need to know more about it. Can’t fake that kind of riding, after all.”

  
“Lady Donna can ride Hero now?” asked Zarala in awe. “Are you sure he won’t hurt her?”

  
“Let’s watch and find out,” the Phantom told the tiny girl, Tim’s reins in his hand. “This will be her first time.”

  
Donna patted the stallion and spoke to him as she always did to Tim, then mounted with confidence, using the stirrup, since Hero was a little taller than the bay. She spent a moment adjusting the stirrup leathers, for Kit’s legs were longer than hers, then took up the reins and put her legs on him.

  
The stallion behaved with grace and decorum, easing into his leads and gaits, his ears ever back to catch her word or movement. Before he’d broken a sweat, Donna had him doing piaffes, two-tempe changes and pirouettes. Her quiet pats on his neck, and low words of praise and encouragement seemed to please him, for he arched his neck higher and danced more impressively as she did so. She rode down toward the end of the pasture, meaning to hunt up her husband, when that pair appeared from the trees, Dorn beside them. From the gestures, the German was explaining a point about the shoulder-in, a movement that Tim could do, but didn’t like.

  
The doctor was astonished at what Donna could make Hero do, and the Phantom was a bit surprised himself. Donna was able to do the piaffe and a couple of lavades for the men, Zarala in shock at such control of the legendary Hero.

  
“Mein Gott, Fraulein,” the doctor gasped. “That horse could easily make the team for the World Cup in Aachen. The German team.”

  
“Oh, surely not,” protested Donna, patting the stallion in thanks. “I’m not that good, truly.”

  
“True, you could use a little work on your form,” agreed the vet. “But his movements are perfect. Rhythmic, powerful, controlled, his impulsion and presence like barely controlled dynamite. You are either a far better trainer than you have let on, or, Herr Phantom, you have misled me. You claim to be ignorant of basic dressage, yet your horse performs as if he has just come from the Spanish Riding School at Vienna.”

  
“Hero learns quickly,” the Phantom claimed, wondering if his father had taught the stallion dressage while he was away in college. “He certainly didn’t learn that slow trot from me. And he’s never done that kangaroo hop before, either.”

  
“Piaffe and levade,” corrected the German, his eyes taking in the picture the girl made on the white stallion. “He jumps well, doesn’t he?”

  
“Yes, he does,” the Phantom said, sliding off of Tim, the gelding a little sweaty, but the walk having cooled him down. “Never refuses, very nimble, seven feet or so is not too high for him.”

  
“Then that is the horse for the Olympics,” the vet told them, the bay forgotten beside him. “He catches the eye like a magnet, his dressage scores would carry the day. With him, you could take home the gold medal in eventing, perhaps even dressage. If the Lady Donna can do such with him, you, Herr Phantom, with some practice, should be able to do at least as well. Lady Heloise may have her team, yet.”

  
“Oh, Tim can do as well,” Donna insisted, insulted at her horse being snubbed so. “He’s just not as flashy as Hero, since he’s a bay. And he likes an audience.”

  
“Yes, he is far more experienced,” Dr. Dorn admitted, “as well as willing and cooperative. But for pure impression, Hero is what you want. His extended trot alone would bring people to their feet. I think it is only partly that stallion spark. He is just so much horse, you see?”

  
“Still, I’m taking Tim, if anyone,” Donna said resolutely. “He’s my horse, not Hero. Although, I really would like to try him on a cross-country course sometime. He’s got that feeling of being so light on his feet that air might be his element. Almost like he could fly, if it suited him.”

  
“Many of the jungle folk think he can,” the Phantom told her. “You can try him later, dear. They need baths, both of them, I think. Can we find any volunteers for Tim?”

  
“Zarala,” Donna called to her friend, turning the stallion toward the fence where the pygmy girl sat with her friends, all round-eyed at Donna’s mount. “Does anyone want to help give Tim a bath?”

  
Shortly, with two horses and two adults, and about twenty children, the bathing pool was full. Donna made sure Tim knew she was pleased with him, although she knew he hadn’t understood what the doctor had said. She reassured him so that he wouldn’t be jealous of Hero, and perhaps get into a spat with the stallion. That would have been hard on the gelding, so she took steps to make him safer, and perhaps feel a bit smug. Preventive hugging, she told herself.

  
“Why is it,” Donna wondered later, just before dinner, “that when you give a horse a bath, you always need one yourself? I mean, the horse is clean, why aren’t I? Does the dirt just get transferred? Is it some sort of cosmic law?”

  
“The law of conservation of dirt?” laughed her fiancé. “I think you just want an excuse to take another bath, my lady Donna.”

  
He had no need to wash again, she thought in mild envy. His leather had remained on the bank under Devil’s eye, while he and Donna rinsed off the white stallion. That purple silk really did keep you cleaner, she decided.

  
“What I really want is an excuse not to go to the séance thing,” she confessed, taking the towel he handed her as she emerged from the Cave’s pool. “I’m nervous as a cat. If there are gods and spirits, why would they want me? What’s different about me that a Maori goddess has to go so far as Bengalla? Is distance relevant for a spirit?”

  
“Dad says not,” interjected the Phantom, taking the towel back and handing Donna a sarong in white and blue. She managed to make it fit reasonably well, having practiced with Zarala that morning.

  
“Did I do something bad?” Donna continued as she brushed her hair, frowning in thought. “Is something bad going to happen, and I’m supposed to do something about it? It’s got me scared, Kit. I’m on the edge of running like a rabbit, except that I can’t think of anyplace safer than here, with you.”

  
“Oh, Donna,” he said, smiling at her, pleased at her complement. “Don’t worry so much. I won’t let anything hurt you, and Dad’s not likely to stand around doing nothing, either, dead or not. And I’m sure Dandoli wouldn’t do anything that might bring you harm. It’s just like trying a new sport, sort of, like parachuting. It’s fun, after you get over the weirdness of jumping out of a plane.”

  
“Just hold me tight, lover,” she told him, trying to believe it. “And keep telling me that. I’ll have a case of the shakes, otherwise. And I’d rather not have anyone see that except you.”

  
“Donna,” he said softly, pulling her close, his voice that caress of sound that never failed to soothe her. “I’ll be right there, nothing bad will happen to you. Now, let’s go eat and don’t worry. I’ve seen this done before, and it’s not going to hurt you.”

  
“I’m not worried about me, silly,” she said to his shoulder, feeling better in his arms. “I’m worried about other people. The Maori, the Bandar, you. Even a spirit like Apakura has better things to do than pay attention to someone like me. Groups, maybe, or important people, like you, or a president.”

  
“Well, we won’t know for a while, so relax,” he told her, feeling that she didn’t value herself highly enough. How did she end up with such a low opinion of herself when she was obviously so good at so many thing, he wondered. “Now, come to dinner, o Seeker of Visions, and stop worrying. The Palace Guard will defend you from demons. Didn’t Dandoli tell you gods take good care of their channels?”

  
“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. “But who knows what a god considers ‘good’?”

  
“Donna,” he sighed, picking her up and kissing her. “Just be quiet. It’ll be alright, really.”

  
Dinner was a quiet one for the two of them, though the tribe ate together and were particularly solicitous of Donna. The tension made her less than hungry, so she really ate very little. The Bandar did their best to put her at ease, and the comic skit that two of the warriors did of their pursuit of a pig did make her laugh. The foodstuffs were cleared away and drums and torches appeared, marking the beginning of the ceremony. Donna’s hand, the one that bore the sapphire, held the Phantom’s tightly, her unease as obvious as a shout.

  
Dandoli appeared in his full, elaborate shamanic costume, which Donna had never seen before. A headdress of a small skull, a rodent, perhaps, and a mass of long, colorful feathers crowned him, making him seem taller. A cape and collar of white monkey fur outlined his dark body. His wrists and ankles had been bound with thick hide bracers, and his face masked with black paint. Charms and signs decorated his person, and were woven into the fringes of his cape and his long fringed belt. In his left hand he carried a staff, elaborately carved, in his right a cup. He took care to spill none of the contents, though he seemed to dance to unheard music.

  
“Donna McLaren, beloved of the Phantom,” he said in formal tones, “dear to our own hearts, come to sit here, so that we may surround you and protect you with the strength of the Bandar. None may do evil to you here, in a place of such strength and safety.”

  
Oddly, his words seemed to make her fear subside, and the low beat of the drums reassured her. The Bandar began a low-voiced murmur of almost-chant, blending with the drums to near-hypnotic rhythm. Donna obeyed, sitting cross-legged in the center of the circle.

  
“Drink this, o favored one,” he intoned, handing her the wooden cup. “It will open your spirit to the path it must take. The path to the next world, the world of the spirits.”

  
Donna steeled herself and obeyed, a part of her wondering if she would have gone through with it if there hadn’t been so many watching. The liquid was actually not unpleasant, she found, somewhat surprised. A bit oily, it was rather tart, and went down easily. Dandoli began to sway in the torchlight before her, and she relaxed into the spell of his voice, soon in a deep trance.

  
The Phantom watched her carefully, ready to awaken her if she seemed in danger of any kind. Zarala was ready to do anything she had to, should her heroine seem to need help. But Donna seemed to simply be in a normal trance state, at least until Dandoli completed his invocation to the spirits. Done in the traditional Bandar language, the Phantom half hoped that the Maori deity would not hear or understand the invitation.

  
“Oh spirits,” Dandoli said sonorously, the crowd now silent. “Here is one who offers the use of her body and her tongue. Use her kindly, if you will, and then be at peace.”

  
Donna’s relaxed body suddenly tensed and began to glow with a greenish light, the stone on her breast like a star in the night. She seemed to spring to her feet like a puppet jerked upright, eyes open and no longer gray. Her mouth opened and a roar like the sound of the sea came out, and then turned to laughter, deep and rough.

  
“Ah, she is a fitting vessel,” said a voice that was not their Donna’s. “It is well done, then. Hear me, mortals, and you who are my weapon’s mate. I am the Atuamoana, called now Apakura, a greater spirit of your world. I avenge the dead, those unjustly killed, and their souls are sheltered in me until they are at peace.”

  
The eyes that had been gray and kind, now were greenish and dark, changing color like a cold sea in winter when clouds scud across it. The Phantom saw little trace of his beloved, but no harm to her, either. If Donna desired to rid herself of this spirit, she would, he told himself. Her will was greater than many conceived.

  
“Why are you here, using my betrothed to speak to us?” he asked, deliberately using no name or title. Such, according to legend, could be dangerous.

  
“I need a vessel with which to accomplish my aim,” said the spirit-possessed form of the blond. “And with your aid, she can do this thing. Within myself I hold the souls of those who died at your Great Games, and they desire vengeance of a particular sort. They wish for the next Great Games to have no more deaths.”

  
“The Olympic Games?” said the Phantom in surprise. “The Israelis who were killed? There’s going to be another terrorist attack in Montreal in three years?”

  
“So it will be,” affirmed the presence within the horsewoman, “Unless you and my weapon can prevent it. That is the vengeance I desire.”

  
“Who are the targets, and who are the evil ones?” asked the masked giant, his face in the torchlight suddenly grim and hard, his voice deadly and cold.

  
“I know only what those who have died know, o mate to my weapon,” the spirit told him. “When one dies who knows these things, you shall be told. Only know now that you must be prepared. This is not an easy vengeance. Planning must be done, practice and determination are almost as important as skill. Know, o mortal cousin, that my weapon shall take no harm from me in this. Nor shall you, or any who assist you, for I do not harm those who serve me, even when they know it not.”

  
“Then Donna must compete in the next Olympic Games,” deduced the Phantom, his voice grim. “So that she, and I, and any allies we may have, can prevent another terrorist bloodbath. Why do you choose my Donna, o spirit?”

  
“Because she suits my purpose best, o little cousin,” came a surf-like chuckle. “Better far than you alone. She is already near to ready for such competition, and can move among such folk with less attention than you may. She is, though a pale creature, still of my lands, and has the courage of Kupe himself.”

  
“How may we know that you have spoken truth?” asked Dandoli, mindful of the stories of tricks played by spirits on unwary mortals. “If you are the god you claim, prove your words for us. We will not hazard our Lady Donna without knowing that we must.”

  
“Do not ask for miracles now, little _tohunga_ ,” advised the stranger inside Donna. “Later, when she has need, I will prove my power. I prefer purpose to my proofs. Now, I return your companion to you, unhurt, and aware of my words and my ends.”

  
As suddenly as that, the tall blond was herself again, and sat down hard on the grass, eyes wide and gray again in surprise. She stared at them all for a moment, then leaned forward to put her head on her knees, trying to still the dizziness and growing nausea. Dandoli gestured imperiously and the boy who was his apprentice, Zoli, brought a wooden bowl and a gourd of passion fruit juice, mild but vitamin rich. He was just in time, for no sooner had Dandoli handed Donna the bowl, than she used it, feeling better, but embarrassed, immediately.

  
“God, how I hate throwing up,” she moaned, feeling the strong hands of her lover pulling her close. “And all that food wasted, too. It makes me feel like such a sissy.”

  
“Donna, dearest,” said the Phantom with a smile, “no one would ever think that of you. It’s like using a car to pull a train. You can do it, but it’s hard on the equipment. So’s using you to talk to a god. Incompatible wiring.”

  
“No kidding,” she groaned, letting him take her into his arms. “What an assignment, too. Must be the first time since Ancient Greece that a god ordered someone to the Olympics. I must tell you, Kit, that was triple-A weird.”

  
“From my side, too,” he told her, turning her so that he could see her face. “Your eyes were all, well, eerie, different. Green, not gray. And your whole body seemed to be greenish, or gray-green, like sea water.”

  
“Sea water is blue,” objected Zarala, holding out the fruit juice in a cup. Everyone gathered closer, as much to hear her as to lend support. “It was more like a stormy sky.”

  
“She was rather nice, Kit,” the blond told him, relaxed in his arms, among friends. “But there’s a cold sort of drive in her, an elemental lack of mercy or pity for anyone she considers her enemy. I don’t think she’s dangerous, mostly, unless someone interferes with her, or makes themselves her targets. It was kind of like being taken over by a typhoon, I guess. Polite and even considerate to me, but if someone she was hunting had passed by, she’d have flung me at them like a trained attack dog. I couldn’t have stopped her, not in time.”

  
“Is there anything else we can hear about the plan?” he asked, giving her a chance to drink the juice. “How does she know about it? What can she do about it? Will she leave you alone now?”

  
“Kit, you’re asking a suit of clothes what the chap who wore it does for a living,” she protested after drinking. “I’m not likely to know. I’m more likely to know about what he sat in.”

  
“Well, then you might as well come to bed,” he told her, relieved. “We’ve got the better part of three years, after all.”

  
“Easy for you to say,” she sighed as he picked her up. “I’m going to have to compete internationally in order to make the Games. That means going away, Kit. And I don’t want to. I don’t want to leave you, or the Deep Woods, or Jula, or anybody. I’ve only been here for, what, a week and a half? But I’m home, and I don’t want to leave, ever.”

  
“That’s what makes it so nice to leave every now and then, darling,” he told her, kissing her forehead. “Coming home is always a special treat, even tired or hurt. I’m glad you’ll feel that way, too.”

  
“Uh, I do know one thing,” she told him, as he put her to bed. “That proof that Dandoli asked for? She’s already helped me, and you, once before. When that beam fell on you in the barn fire, I couldn’t move it by myself. I tried, but nothing happened at first. I should have burned my hands to the bone and seen you die, but somehow I moved it off of you. I remember when it happened, wondering how I’d done it, where that strength came from. Now I know.”

  
“It came from your guardian spirit?” guessed the Phantom, stripping off his hood, mask and shirt. “But you’d hardly had any contact with her before, hadn’t you?”

  
“No, only Professor Temotu’s remarks,” she admitted, savoring his masculine beauty. “But when she was, well, with me, I saw that whole episode again, and it was her, Apakura, the Atuamoana. She couldn’t let either of us die, so she kind of helped me out.”

  
“Are you certain?” he asked, taking off his boots. “I wasn’t conscious, so I don’t know how heavy the beam might have been. You’re pretty strong, and you know how to use your weight, as well.”

  
“It was nearly a foot square,” she told him, confidently. “And it was still sticking one end up in the roof, with the other end on you. Still think I could move it?”

  
“That would be fairly difficult,” he conceded, sliding into bed with her after turning down the lamp. “And if you hadn’t moved it, I would have died?”

  
“You weren’t breathing even after I got you off of Tim,” she reminded him. “I’d call that a given. And I’d never have realized how much I loved you. And you would have just gone home if you hadn’t been so badly hurt. Not that I’m glad you were, hurt, I mean. But why weren’t my hands burned?”

  
“She kept your hands from burning?” he asked, taking them into his own, pleased to see that she had left the sapphire ring on. “Do you think she arranged the fire?”

  
“No,” said Donna slowly, remembering, if that was the word for it. “I somehow think she doesn’t get along well with fire of any kind. Water, earth, heaviness, feels more like her realm of control. But I don’t even have scars. At the time I never even noticed a blister.”

  
“Then, since you say so,” he said, kissing her hands, “I will believe, and act on your goddess’ words. Now, be a good girl and go to sleep. Priestesses need their rest.”

  
“I’m too tired to argue,” yawned Donna, and remembered nothing else until he woke her with kisses.

  
“How do you feel, o little weapon of the gods?” he asked, giving her a chance to stretch. “Better than last night?”

  
“Starving, Kit,” she told him, her hand with the ring brushing her jade charm. The dull green stone suddenly sparked like green fire, then was again only stone. “Oh, damn. She left me a souvenir. I’m sorry, lover, but while I’d like to eat you up, I need bananas, and maybe tea. And a steak, a big one.”

  
“I bow before your obvious condition,” he laughed, her belly having underlined her words. “Get dressed and I’ll send someone to find you some food. Meet me out near the Throne when you’re ready, okay?”

  
“Right!” she agreed, trying to find her sandals. Before she had, he was dressed and gone. She spared a moment, as she dressed, to look closely at her hands, but could find no burn scars on them as there ought to have been. Never, she thought to herself, well, almost never, look a gift deity in the mouth.

  
She was welcomed to the new day with an extraordinary scent, and she stopped to sniff at it with eyes closed in bliss. It was the scent of holiday dinners, of festival meals.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donna gets back in shape

“Are you going to just stand there drooling?” asked her lover in amusement. “Or are you going to come and eat? Tula made her fried chicken for you.”

  
“It really is fried chicken?” squeaked Donna, bounding forward. “Oh, it is! How marvelous, Tula. I adore chicken. Especially this way. And it looks delicious.”

  
“It tastes better,” Zarala assured her as she passed by with an armful of tack. “You need to make up for last night, Momma says.”

  
“It is from a recipe I found in an American book,” Tula told the blond, who wore shorts and a halter top. “I can’t quite figure out grits, though. But bananas are good with it, and water.”

  
“I could just eat chicken,” Donna assured her, picking up a piece, unidentifiable under the breading. “Oh, it’s better than my mother’s.”

  
Hero and his master, Devil at heel, came to see them and the big man kissed his beloved thoroughly, in spite of the grease on her face.

  
“I have to go to the Mori village,” he told her, as she futilely tried to wipe away the smears. “There’s a boat fishing off their coast, in their waters, a commercial trawler. I need to check it out. Those are not welcome here, lest they take too many fish and the Mori starve. I don’t like the way they kill off a lot of other fish and only keep one kind, dumping the rest.”

  
“Can I come?” asked Donna eagerly, the chicken almost forgotten. She envisioned a conference held on the deck of a fishing boat, easily and peacefully concluded.

  
“Maybe next time, dear,” he told her reluctantly. “You need to be a little fitter than you are today. I’ll be back in a few days, so don’t worry. And don’t go off into the jungle without an escort, okay?”

  
“Right,” she agreed reluctantly. “Be careful, dear. It’s your wedding, too.”

  
“I will, dear heart,” he told her, mounting the stallion with that twisting grace she loved. “Goodbye, beloved.”

  
“Come back soon, Kit,” she told him even as he turned Hero and trotted off, Devil at heel. “Rats. Better shape, eh? I’ll show him fit.”

  
“Excuse me, Lady Donna?” said Tula, not having heard the last few words clearly. She loved to see the Phantom ride off, though his returns were better, mostly. Donna rapidly consumed the fried chicken, giving it the attention it deserved, and thanked Tula profusely.

  
“I make it sometimes for special occassions,” the older lady said as they cleaned up the remains. “It has a very nice taste to it. Americans have interesting foods.”

  
“True,” admitted Donna. “My people really only have a rather bland taste in food. The only real New Zealand food is a meat pie. Hardly as good as your chicken. Americans have chicken and pizza and hot dogs and hamburgers and ice cream and donuts, and a thousand others. It’s that British heritage that we labor under, I guess.”

  
“As I recall, an old colonial curse was ‘may you have an American butler, a French accountant and an English cook,’” the librarian told her, as they put the remains in the firepit. “Perhaps I shall see you later, Lady Donna.”

  
“You may, at that,” laughed Donna, jogging off to the paddock for Zarala’s lesson. Zarala was progressing very nicely, and Donna promised that the next day they would start jumping.

  
“By myself?” asked Zarala in ecstasy, hardly able to contain herself. “How high?”

  
“Oh, little stuff at first,” Donna assured her. “You have to learn how to feel what the horse is doing before you jump high.”

  
“Good,” said the little girl with some relief. “I want to learn enough that I can at least understand what I see when we go to the Olympics, Lady Donna. I’m only going to be about thirteen by then, but I’ll know everything about tack, you’ll see. Tula promised to get me some books about it. Do you think most people who make horse tack ride?”

  
“I’m sure they do,” Donna told her as they put Tim’s gear on the paddock rail. “All the saddlers in New Zealand did, or used to. Sometimes when you can’t ride anymore, you can still work with leather. One of the saddlers in Papakura used to be quite a famous steeplechaser, but he fell rather badly at last and couldn’t ride after that. Made beautiful saddles, though. He made the one I used to show Tim, the one that burned up in the fire.”

  
“You do still want me to go with you, don’t you, Lady Donna?” asked the tiny girl, making a mental note to find out where Montreal was. She was well aware that if a god had need of Lady Donna’s skills, it might be a dangerous place. What if Lady Donna thought she was too young, too small?

  
“Of course, Zarala,” said Donna, picking up the pygmy girl and tossing her onto her own shoulders. “How could I go without you? Now, tell me, is there a place that I can practice gymnastics around here?”

  
“You mean, parallel bars and rings and stuff?” asked the delighted pygmy child. Her parents wouldn’t carry her this way anymore. Tim looked at them oddly as he chewed a mouthful of grass. Humans should ride horses, not other humans, he seemed ready to say. “The Phantom uses the place on top of the cliff. I’ve seen him do things like that up there. Do you do that, too?”

  
“I used to. But women’s gymnastics are a bit different than the men’s, at least in competition,” Donna told her friend, as they got back to the Cave. “Kit tells me I need to be fitter before I can go anywhere with him, so, I start training. Is there anything to eat up there? Or should I take a water gourd?”

  
“Water and bananas are up there,” said Zarala thoughtfully. “And oranges and _shalga_ berries. What do you need to do gymnastics?”

  
“Just a towel, I guess,” said Donna cheerfully, deliberately not thinking about Kit not being nearby. “Half a moment.”

  
Soon they were at the top of the cliff that contained the Skull Cave, and Zarala watched her idol as she examined the small outdoor gym. Donna quickly realized that it was more extensive than she had thought. Ropes and trees made most of the normal equipment found in regular training establishments, without the springboards and mats. She stretched her muscles out carefully, while Zarala picked oranges and bananas. Then, choosing a solid-looking set of rather high parallel bars, she began her old routine.

  
Some minutes into the exercise she realized that her hands were blistering, and that Kit had been right. Big surprise. She finished with a flashy dismount that brought several sets of applause from around the clearing. She blew on her hands and bowed with a laugh, while Zarala handed her the towel.

  
“Kit was right,” she told the tiny girl as several Bandar warriors came to join them. “I am out of shape. And my old calluses are gone, too. I guess I’ll have to take up swimming until I get my hands back.”

  
“Your hands are still there,” remarked one warrior to her, puzzled.

  
“No, father,” said Zarala, handing him an orange. “She means that she can’t do what she once could, and has to build up the hardness of her hands, like for a bow. Lady Donna, this is my father, Horan, who has been away watching the Eastern Dark. Father, this is the Lady Donna McLaren, who marries the Ghost Who Walks in eight days.”

  
“And teaches you to ride horses and kill Mussanga warriors!” added the man, hugging his strangely-clad little girl. “I am honored, Lady Donna, and happy that it is not my turn to guard while your wedding happens! This is my friend Tonandi, who guarded with me. Our relief told us of your adventure, if briefly. I look forward to hearing of it, almost as much as I do to seeing your mother, little butterfly.”

  
“Oh, dear me, you must get home, then,” laughed Donna, bowing to the two small men, who spoke colloquial English as if born to it. At least Zarala’s father did. The other seemed to be too shy to say anything. “Jula should not be kept waiting on my account. Shall we go swimming, Zarala?”

  
“Where?” asked the tiny girl, as the two women followed the guards down the path to the valley. “And can the others come?”

  
“Of course,” said Donna, eating her last banana and making sure the peel went well off the steep trail. “And I’ll just take my spears to practice with. No more naps for me! I’ve got to be in shape, and that means exercise. Swimming, running, gymnastics, maybe weights. I’ll never be as strong as Kit, but I’d better be the best that I can be. It sounds as if I’m going to need to be strong.”

  
“But Dandoli said that the gods take care of their favored,” protested Zarala, bouncing down the side of the trail like a ball. “And your Atuamoana said she wouldn’t hurt you or your friends.”

  
“Exactly, partner,” said Donna as they got to the bottom of the trail. “You have to pay attention to what those sorts really say, not what it appears that they’ve said. She said she wouldn’t hurt me. That doesn’t mean she’ll do anything if someone else tries to do anything to me, or you, or Kit.”

  
“Oh,” said Zarala as they walked into the village. “Hey, Moki, Jokan, Zoli! We’re going swimming, anyone else want to go?”

  
The rest of the day’s hottest part was spent in swimming races and spear practice. The children were fascinated by the story of her swim with the dolphins. She emphasized that they weren’t fish, but mammals. “Just people who lived in the sea so long that they sort of blended into it, you see.”

  
“I read in a book,” Zoli volunteered, “that millions of years ago, something climbed out of the water and started to live on land. After a while, some decided to go back to the sea. Dolphins, whales and seals used to be land animals, like zebras or wolves, it said.”

  
“And a lot smarter than any fish,” agreed Donna, tossing her last practice spear. “Fish wouldn’t play like that, and not try to eat us. Sharks will just ignore you, or eat you. But they’re perfectly evolved killing machines. They never left the sea, and haven’t changed since the first amphibian wriggled up onto the beach.”

  
“Probably why the amphibian came ashore,” pointed out Zoli, as she pulled her spears out of the target stump, and the ground around it. “Trying to get away from sharks. I would have.”

  
“Well, dolphins don’t like sharks,” Donna admitted, walking back to her starting line. “Not afraid of them, either. I guess they’re faster and smarter than sharks.”

  
Later, after dinner, Donna was feeling pleasantly tired, and decided to read a little more of Kit’s Chronicle. In the cool private library she sat with the big book open to his early life as the Phantom and read of danger and vengeance, as well as the photographer’s near-death in the Veiled Lady volcano. It had, naturally, been a much more complicated operation than her lover had let on. Jean Dumont owed the Phantom his life several times over, by Donna’s count.

  
As she rose to her feet again, from putting the big volume away, she thought she saw a shape, a human one, out of the corner of her eye, but there was no one there. She was careful to check the entire room, but while there seemed to be someone watching her, she could see nothing. The room was not one that could hide any people bigger than Zarala, and Donna went to bed both lonely and puzzled.

  
The next morning Zarala woke her and the two began Donna’s new training regimen. With Zarala mounted on Tim, Donna and her friend went to the cliff top gym for a little work on the bars before Zarala’s lesson. The jog to the top of the path would put her in condition, Donna figured, panting, and give Zarala a chance to go up and down hill on horseback. It would be good for the bay, as well.

  
Later, the jumping lesson went well, though the Bandar who watched were not impressed with the foot high rails Donna had the big gelding doing. Jula, however, was pleased, for it was much slower and more sensible than she had feared. It felt quite high enough for Zarala, who fully understood the reasons, because a horse jumping, even a little bit, felt entirely different than one doing flat work. The little upward-and-forward lunge was difficult to anticipate properly, at first, and the idea of hanging on to mane or saddle was difficult to accept, until the first hop.

  
Zarala found that the forward position she had mastered for the canter was useful, but could easily be unbalanced when Tim rose to his jump. This could have resulted in a ‘rap on the mouth,’ as Donna put it, had the tiny girl not simply let the leathers slide through her hands. After several tries, she began to understand what her instructor meant, and progress was rapid after that. Truly, practice was a large part of such skills, Zarala though, feeding the gelding a piece of banana bread after his unsaddling.

  
“And how about another swim?” asked Donna, picking up her spears and a towel. “Or do you have to do more studying?”

  
“I can do both today,” the little girl told her cheerfully. “I have to get another book first, though. Did that Haggard chap write anything else?”

  
“Oh, lots,” Donna assured her friend as they headed into the library. “I don’t know if there’s any more here, though. But the rest will be good. You have to watch it, at least with the ‘Three Musketeers,’ or you start talking like they do in the book. I’m not sure, but I think that’s a sign of a good book. Your friends look at you funny when you talk like that, as I recall.”

  
“Was the one you read any good?” asked Zarala, as Donna leaned her spears against the oaken door of the library. “It didn’t look so long.”

  
“It was alright,” Donna said, thinking. “But it was too short. I always like a good book to keep going. I think there were a couple more books about the characters in the ‘Mines’ book. ‘She’ and ‘Allan Quartermain,’ I think they are.”

  
“I’d like to find those,” Zarala said with some decision. “I like the first one really well, though parts were boring. I don’t know why you called it ‘far-fetched.’”

  
Soon they were splashing industriously and many joined them, then ate lunch and read. Donna did not consider that working on her tan was wasted time, for she was planning on more time with the dolphins. The New Zealander found that she was actually developing a routine now, in spite of the exotic setting and the unusual population. And, though she was missing Kit to the point of pain, she felt a solid, grounded sense of home, as if she had never really lived anywhere else.

  
Tula joined them for a while, and nodded in approval at Donna’s judicious exposure of skin to the tropical sun. She had a book, too, and after swimming, she joined them in their study group. The librarian was reading an old book on geology, which aroused no comment from anyone. After seeing so many reading, many of the other children decided to read, as well. Many a parent wondered at the sudden quiet, suspecting the worst, but the children had all found common ground with the Lady Donna.

  
That afternoon Donna put a new piece of gear on Tim, a surcingle with handles and straps of worn leather, and a sheepskin back pad. The big bay tossed his head and danced as he recognized the equipment, his ears pricked and eyes bright. Donna wore her halter top and shorts, and some hide slippers that fit tightly on her feet.

  
“What is that?” Moki asked, watching from the rail. “It doesn’t look like a saddle. There’s no stirrups.”

  
“It’s a vaulting rig,” answered Donna, tightening the girth while Tim flicked his ears back to ‘see.’ “I’m going to practice my gymnastics with the ‘horse.’ People in the competitions use what they call a horse, made out of wood and leather, a kind of padded log. But this is how that started, with a real horse. Now, you only see this sort of thing in circus acts, at least in New Zealand. It’s quite good exercise, and practice, which is why I’m going to do it.”

  
At Donna’s command, the big bay began to trot around her in a perfect circle, actually following the track he’d made while Zarala had been learning the canter. Donna stretched and bent to get herself ready, while the gelding pranced about in his own warm-up, his bridled head held high, always aware of his beloved rider. Donna stopped him with a word, and then started him in the other direction, which amused the children thoroughly. At last, to his delight, she let him canter, and he settled into a calm, easy gait, his ears always cocked toward her, head tucked into position like a wooden pony on a carousel.

  
Donna ran toward him and sailed into the air to land on his back. She proceeded, as he rolled around the circle, to do handstands, pikes, stands and leaps on the pad. Then, using the handles, she got fancy. She bounced and flipped and posed and flew like magic as the bay rocked beneath her, his gait never varied. The noise of the children’s applause brought others, Zarala’s parents included, who added their approval. Finally, with a high double twist, Donna dismounted, and the many watchers shouted enthusiastically, laughing as she bowed with her horse to them. Tim got almost an entire loaf of mango bread, a lot of petting and his rider’s praise. He looked thoroughly pleased with himself, Zarala thought.

  
“Your horse enjoys this,” said Chief Guran in surprise, as Donna removed the tack from Tim. “He seems to like to have people watch.”

  
“He is a bit of a ham,” agreed Donna, patting him, his nose searching the Bandar chief for possible treats. “You should see him at a good-sized show. He struts like they all came to see him and him alone. And he loves the ribbons at the end, and galloping the victory round. He tosses his head about so that the ribbon flutters and snaps, displaying it to the crowd. I’m almost certain he’s figured out his placing by now.”

  
That night, Donna again felt a watching presence in the room of the Chronicles, but saw nothing. She wondered if there was a secret passage, or a peephole, but found none, in spite of taking every book off the shelf and replacing it. The mission she read had been long and hard, and her lover had been twice lucky to escape with only bruises, where a lesser man would have died. Donna thought she felt a hand on her shoulder, but, again, no one was there. She dismissed it as wishful thinking, her desire for Kit, making her imagine things, and went to her lonely bed.

  
The next day started much as the one before it, and Donna found she’d grown far more proficient, in only two weeks, with Bandarese, her vocabulary larger. The vigorous exercise of running and the gymnastics workout had become less the effort it had been only days before, and more of a routine. The jumping lesson was repeated with some variations, and Zarala found herself wondering aloud if she would be any good at gymnastics.

  
“Of course you would,” Donna told her positively. “You have the perfect body type. The trend has gone toward younger girls, lately, because they’re small, compact, don’t have all the extra mass that I do to make move around. You’re small, so if you do a drop from the top bar, for instance, to the lower bar, you don’t have as much weight to stop as I do. Your hands and wrists won’t take so much strain, you can flip higher, put in more twists, that kind of thing. I drag my toes on the ground when I do spins on most uneven bars. The ones up there are higher than international rules call for. But, so are the other things, I guess because Kit’s so tall. I’ve never seen a gymnast his size, or anyone else who could be so fast. He’s kind of a rule unto himself.”

  
“You mean, like jockeys, small is better in gymnastics, too?” asked the girl, wondering if she could do that spin-around-the-bar thing that Donna did. She wasn’t sure she could get her hands around that sturdy branch, let alone get up enough momentum to swing.

  
“Sure,” the blond told her, launching a spear at the unoffending stump. “Just a matter of finding what you’re good at, Zarala, then practicing. Look at your riding. Did you think three weeks ago you’d be riding someone like Tim? I hardly remember not living her, it seems so nice and comfortable.”

  
“No, I never thought I’d ever ride a real horse then,” admitted Zarala, finishing her banana bread, half saved for her adored Tim. She’d been teaching him a trick of her own after Donna went into the Cave each night. “And I remember before you came. I like it much better with you here, and so does everyone else.”

  
“Lady Donna!” said Jula’s voice from behind them, just as Donna threw her spear. “It is only a week until your wedding, you must try on your dress. Much of the tribe moves to the Beach to prepare for the wedding, so your dress must be fitted for the final time today.”

  
“You’re moving?” asked Donna, confused. “But don’t you live here?”

  
Zarala went to search for the spear that had gone off into the brush at her mother’s words.

  
“Only some of us,” assured the older pygmy woman. “Those who will cook and make the shelters and get the place ready. I am headwoman, so I go. So do many others. My sister Tula, my husband Horan, Konala, Danila, Dandoli to bless the work and fix splinters. It takes a day to get there, so we go tomorrow. Those who will miss it were chosen by lot, so only a few will remain to guard the area. But almost everyone else will be there for the ceremony.”

  
“Uh, let me go get clean first,” said Donna humbly. “I’m not clean enough for that dress, yet. I’ll be back down at your house in an hour, if that’s good enough.”

  
“That’s fine, Lady Donna,” the woman told her, pleased. “Zarala, you can show her your design for her horse, while she is fitted. Now, help her put the spears away, child.”

  
“Yes, Momma,” said Zarala happily. Her mother had helped with the drawing of Tim’s wedding gear, but she had decided on his costume. He would wear the tiger skin as a pad, with lavender flowers braided into tail and mane, and over his breastplate and browband. Streaming ribbons would accent his tail and mane, mostly in white. Donna would look very striking on the bay in her white dress, Zarala figured. Of course, the Phantom would always look like the Phantom, and Hero was not something that could be improved on, but Tim would be very well turned out.

  
Donna was quite complementary and agreed with the pixie-sized girl’s plan with only one reservation.

  
“Are you sure you’ll have enough time to do all those flowers and ribbons?” asked the blond as she stood obediently motionless under Jula’s critical eye. “That sort of thing can take a long time.”

  
“Oh, everyone will help,” Zarala assured her confidently. “Jokan and Moki and Zoli will get the flowers, I’m to get the rest done while they braid them in. It’ll be fine, Lady Donna, you’ll see.”

  
“No one will see anything but you, Lady Donna,” contradicted her mother, surveying her work with a satisfied air. “A spirit from the White God’s heaven will not look better. And no one will see if Hero wears red shoes. Yes, I think this design is quite good. Now, what of your shoes?”

  
“Her hair,” insisted Danila, “I must do her hair just before the ceremony. Too soon, and it will become untidy from the veil.”

  
“Yes, yes,” Konala said impatiently. “I have white sandals for you to wear. And we will have fresh flowers and a bouquet for you and your ‘handmaidens.’ Fancy calling little Heloise a ‘handmaiden,’ or that scamp, Mandy.”

  
“Oh, there’s so much to do!” exclaimed Donna in dismay. “Only hours ago I was feeling content and at home and peaceful. Now, I’m getting anxious again. I hope Kit gets back before tonight.”

  
“Worry about nothing, Lady Donna,” Jula assured her as she carefully removed and packed the veil in a wicker basket. “We will take care of everything. All you need to do is be there in the morning, say your lines and depart. This is as much our celebration as it is your own, you see. Your parents and a few others will be there a day early, and guides have already gone to await guests at certain meeting points. All is in readiness. Go, ride your horse.”

  
Donna waited and helped pack the dress as well, then did as she had been ordered, humbled and feeling unworthy of such care and effort. When should she and Kit get there, she wondered. Her parents were going to be there early, a day to tell them about her beloved, perhaps? No, let them find out from others, she thought. All they needed to know was that she loved him. If they couldn’t accept purple tights, mask and guns, that was their hang-up, not hers. She had grown to think of that as sexy, something only her man was good enough to pull off.

  
She was saddling Tim, Zarala on the fence watching, when Hero galloped into view, her beloved on his back. The stallion came to a halt by the tiny girl and the man in purple slid wearily from the saddle. He looked so tired that he alarmed Donna, who left Tim with only his saddle on, and rushed to the Phantom’s side.

  
“Kit!” she exclaimed worriedly. “Don’t tell me you’re hurt again! Let me unsaddle Hero for you. Zarala, you go ride Tim for me, will you, please? About an hour or so, just around here, maybe up and down the cliff a few times. Right?”

  
“Oh, yes, thank you, Lady Donna,” exclaimed Zarala, far more tempted to ride Tim by herself than to find out why the Ghost Who Walks was tired. “I’ll make sure he gets taken care of, don’t worry.”

  
While Zarala bridled the willing Tim, Donna took off the stallion’s tack, turning him loose to graze in peace. The purple-and-black pad was oddly heavy, to Donna’s way of thinking, but she followed her weary lover up the path after a quick kiss. After she had racked the saddle and other equipment, she hurried down the passage to their quarters, only to find him in the bath, instead.

  
Having removed only his boots and gunbelt, the Phantom lay neck-deep in the hot water, and Donna nearly went in after him. What was wrong with her darling Kit, she wondered. “Kit, are you alright?”

  
“Just really tired,” he groaned, stirring himself to peel the silken costume off. “I never felt so tired before. Swimming is hard work without dolphins to help.”

  
“Are you hungry, or thirsty?” asked Donna, taking the clothing from him, vastly relieved to find him unhurt. “I can get you something, just tell me what.”

  
“No, I just need to get cleaned up and rest,” he told her, rubbing his face and hair, his gray eyes still alert and focused. “The Mori sent you a gift for the wedding, Donna, in my saddle pad. They also kept me up two nights running and most of one day with questions about you and the wedding. The story of your battle with the Mussanga has grown in the telling, by the way.”

  
“Oh, no,” said Donna, dismayed. “Look, Kit, go get a little rest. I’ll be right there with some banana bread and fruit juice. Then you can tell me all about it or fall asleep, your choice.”

  
“Okay,” he said, sliding under the water and disappearing briefly. Donna nearly reached after his head to prevent him from drowning, but he came back up, running his strong hands through his dark hair. “Be dangerous to fall asleep here.”

  
“You bet it would be,” agreed the blond, waiting until he was out of the water before she left. A few moments later, having learned enough Bandarese to ask for the foods in that language, she returned to find him sprawled across their bed, hair still damp. She put down the small tray she had been given on the still-unexplored trunk, and quietly covered him up with a thick quilt. He lay face-down and asleep for some time, several hours at least. Donna rinsed and hung his costume up, and took his belt and boots out to dry in the sun. His weapons she took to the armory, unsure of how to clean such things. Guns, she knew, were nothing to fool with, so she did not. The boots and belt, unsurprisingly, felt as if they had spent some time in the salt water. She found his saddle pad and emptied the pouches.

  
She was not terribly surprised to find two ropes of pearls in one pouch and a sack of unset pearls in the other. One rope of pearls was a choker of black, gray, pink and white matched and strung, then twisted together between clasps of black coral. The second rope was three strands twisted to form a large loop, with no visible clasp, apparently meant to be worn long, or maybe double looped. Donna was well aware of the value of such things, and flattered. She wondered how the choker would look with the wedding dress, and decided to wear it. Perhaps Konala could braid the other into her hair, she thought, returning to watch over her sleeping lover. She had noted several bruises on his face and body, and the signs of ropes around his wrists. Clearly, he needed his sleep.

  
She carefully brought his volume of the Chronicles into the bedroom and sat quietly reading while he slept, the soft sound of his breathing reassuring her. Somehow, with him here, even tired and possibly injured, she felt safe, protected and at peace. The story she read while he slept was of pirates and spies, and involved his sister’s agency. Altair operatives must have an odd story or two, she thought, almost hearing a deep-voiced chuckle in her ear. She was really loosing her mind, she said to herself, because Kit hadn’t moved, or even snored. But with Kit there on the bed beside her, she couldn’t find it in her heart to worry.

  
Finally, a few hours into his life story, he stirred, and she carefully marked her place, closed the folio and set it aside, out of the way. She leaned over and carefully brushed at his damp hair, trying to see if his eyes were open. A hand caught her wrist with the speed of a striking cobra, and her lover rolled over with the other poised to strike. She smiled down at him as he came fully awake, confident in his ability to tell friend from enemy.

  
“Donna!” he said in surprise and chagrin. “Be careful, my darling! I might have hurt you.”

  
“Promises, promises,” she told him tenderly, kissing him as he released her wrist. There would be bruises, but she didn’t mind. “Feeling better, lover?”

  
“A little, darling,” he yawned, sitting up. “I could use a drink of something.”

  
“As you command, o Ghost Who Walks,” said Donna cheerfully, bowing deeply. “Here, I didn’t stop for a cup, but you were asleep anyway. I can go get one now, if you like.”

  
“This is fine, Donna,” he told her, accepting the gourd, decorated with black geometric designs. “I’m too thirsty to wait.”

  
She watched him closely as he drank, noting the more serious bruises on his left shoulder and kidney area, the now-livid marks on his wrists. He was still very tired, she decided, and needed at least an entire night of sleep. She handed him the loaf of sweet, moist bread and his robe, smiling at his surprise.

  
“I’ll go get some more juice, lover,” she told him. “And a few pieces of meat. You get dinner in, tonight. Then you sleep, all night long. You can tell me about it tomorrow.”

  
“Not much to tell, darling,” he said, obediently putting on the robe. “The fishing boat was Russian spy ship, only killing off fish with drift nets as a cover. They refused to stop killing sea life, so I, um, rendered their ship unseaworthy.”

  
“You mean you sank it,” Donna translated, a disbelieving grin on her face. “And you got rope marks from negotiations? Never mind, Kit, just eat, then sleep. I’ve got no plans that can’t wait until noon.”

  
He nodded several times during his steak, and almost fell asleep brushing his teeth. Donna managed to get him into the huge bed and covered up, but he was asleep before she slid in beside him. She kissed him, put her arms and legs around him and listened to his breathing and heartbeat until she fell asleep, as well. Her dreams were strange, confused things about two Phantoms, not one. There was an ocean, a boat and a shark, but none of it made much sense after she woke up.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spirit sensing

He woke her up eventually with a deep, sensual kiss, which proceeded into much more active demonstrations. Far later than usual, reassured on her fiancé’s fitness, Donna and her Phantom went out into the village in search of lunch. Not surprised, Guran had a small feast of sorts ready near the paddock, with Tim kept away from it on strict orders. Zarala lurked to report on Tim’s morning exercises, and to keep him away from the breads.

  
Laying on the grass amid the remains of their meal, he finally told her of his mission to the trawler. He hardly mentioned his capture, or his fight with the spies aboard the ship. He did tell her about his long swim back to shore, his encounter with a curiously disinterested shark, and the Mori’s version of her adventure.

  
“Well, maybe the Atuamoana is responsible for the shark leaving you alone,” speculated Donna, still red from his report of her single-handed rout of sixty Mussanga warriors. “She did say we’d take no harm from her. Too bad she didn’t send the dolphins to help you out.”

  
“She didn’t promise to help,” the Phantom reminded the blond, still amused at her embarrassed protests. “Only no harm. It was tiring, but not dangerous. A few miles is not really a long swim unless you’re going against the current, or the water’s really cold.”

  
“I think it would be a long swim for me,” Donna speculated, calling Zarala over with a beckoning gesture. “How was yesterday’s ride, partner?”

  
“We did as you said, Lady Donna,” the elfin girl told her idol. “And today we did the same thing bareback. No jumping, just hills and flat work. He’s harder to stay on up-and-down-hill bareback.”

  
“Good. He’ll be better for the work, and so will you. Would you mind bringing my spears, Zarala?”

  
“Right, Lady Donna,” agreed the girl, and darted away. The bay stood at the fence and nodded his head at her, begging for a treat, or to be allowed out. Donna ignored him for a little kissing practice with her lover, then heard a much closer whine.  
Remembering their surprise interruption at the jungle palace, and the beach, Donna cast a wary eye on the wolf. He had kept his distance this time.

  
“Uh, Kit, I took your guns and knife to the armory,” she told him, reminded. “I don’t know how to clean guns, so I left them there. Salt water’s not good for them, is it?”

  
“No, but I have others,” he told her, patting obviously full holsters. “I’ll clean them this afternoon while you and Tim are busy. Pet Devil, will you? He wants some attention, and you’re on top.”

  
“I’d rather pet you,” she told him, rolling over to the grass and reaching out to the big wolf’s ruff. The gray animal licked her chin and sprawled across her torso exactly as she had just been doing with her lover. “Kit, I swear he’s imitating me, or maybe you. We might as well add Tim. Call him, will you, please?”

  
The Phantom was laughing at her as she tried to avoid the wolf’s lashing tongue, washing her face with great enthusiasm. He whistled a good imitation of her call to the gelding and shortly a horse was trying to decide whether to eat their lunch remains or push the wolf aside. He settled for bread from the masked giant’s hand, a close eye on his human, buried under carnivorous gray fur.

  
“Lady Donna?” asked an uncertain voice.

  
“Oof,” said the blond, as the wolf wiggled on her stomach in happy play. “Get off, Devil! Kit, help!”

  
“Devil, come,” he said, still laughing. “Sit, boy. Good boy.”

  
“Ahh, I don’t think I have face skin left,” giggled Donna. “Sit there and watch, lover. I’m trying to learn to throw my spears, and you get to grade me. Let’s see, what about that tree over there, Zarala? Is it alright to throw at?”

  
“I guess so,” replied the girl dubiously. “It isn’t poisonous or anything. Just don’t throw too far.”

  
“You don’t think I can throw as far as the village, do you?” asked Donna, wiping her face off. “Miss, yes, that I can do.”

  
After several tosses, most hits, her lover stood and helped her correct her form. Her next toss was better, and after an hour or so of mutilating the big tree trunk, Donna was much more accurate.

  
“Now, Kit, am I looking for distance, accuracy, or power?” Donna asked, gathering her spears. “Or is this something I should try a different type of spear for? Maybe this is too light?”

  
“Oh, it’s not too light to throw,” he told her, picking one of the bamboo spears. “You can get distance and accuracy. Let’s see, there.”

  
His throw buried the javelin to the shaft in a tree trunk three times the distance Donna had been throwing. It also pinned a green fruit to the trunk. “See?”

  
“Right,” she sighed. “More practice. Say, want to go a few rounds with the sabers tonight?”

  
“Sure,” he agreed, walking down the slight slope to the tree. A swift pull freed it, though Donna was certain she could not have done so. “Rules this time?”

  
“Whatever you say, darling. But this time, you have to teach me to get better. I’m going to need to be really good, if I’m going to be any use to you. Say, when is your sister getting in?”

  
“Probably with your parents,” shrugged the giant, unconcerned. “I notice many of the Bandar have left for Keelawee Beach, Zarala. Who is still here?”

  
“Chief Guran,” the tiny girl told him, sitting on Tim’s broad back watching. “And Dr. Dorn and Muzi and Uncle Rumal and lots of others. Mother and most of her friends, and father and Moki have all gone. I’m here to take care of Tim and Lady Donna, and make sure they both get there. I think Chief Guran had the same job for you.”

  
“Probably,” agreed the masked giant, chuckling. He encouraged Donna to try again. Tim declined the piece of green fruit he was offered, so the Phantom hefted the two pieces as his fiancée launched her weapon at the nearer tree. As soon as the shaft had stopped quivering, he hit it with a fruit half. The second spear was also assaulted, with similar results.

  
“Nothing you can’t do, is there, Kit?” sighed Donna. “I don’t ever need to worry about running out of challenges, do I? One thing at a time. First, spear throwing, then the art of fruit-throwing.”

  
“I’m just ahead of you, darling,” he told her, retrieving her spears. “After all, I started training as soon as I could walk. And had Heloise to compete with. Not much greater motivation than that. And more opportunity and approval. Most of the Bandar are at least as adept at the deadly art of fruit-throwing, anyway.”

  
“Oh, well,” she laughed, envisioning a battle fought with fruit. “I guess it’s going on cooler, now. Want to watch another vaulting session, Zarala? Maybe we’ll start you on the simpler stuff. Then you’ll know if you like gymnastics. That’s how I decided to try them.”

  
“I’ll go get him ready!” volunteered the tiny girl, now expert enough to move the gelding with hand and heel toward the fence where his equipment waited. She could put on his vaulting rig, since it was a long surcingle over sheepskin, and while she couldn’t tighten it, it would be on correctly.

  
“So, Kit,” she asked her lover as she stacked the spears against a tree, “when should we leave for the beach? Can we get in another swim before the wedding?”

  
“We could go tomorrow, if you like,” he told her, relaxing on the grass with Devil’s head beneath his hand. “Won’t be deserted like last time, though. Oh, Dad said he’d be there, with Mom and your friend, who did, with his spirit’s help, send you the jade thing. So Dad tells me, at least. Strange to think how that might look. And one of those immortals I told you about, Duncan McLeod, will be there. I told him, no fights on the Beach, it’s holy ground, for the day, at least. They won’t fight on holy ground. I don’t think there will be others, but they all look like regular people, so I don’t always know who they are.”

  
“Will it interfere with anyone if we do go?” asked Donna, tightening Tim’s girth, her long leg muscles moving under her tan riding breeches. “I’d love to go swimming there again. Do you have any other swim gear here?”

  
“Maybe Heloise left some,” he told her, deciding to himself that tan was not a color she should wear. It didn’t show off her legs well enough. To him. Maybe it was best to wear that color around other men, though. “I’m not sure if they’ll fit you any better than mine.”

  
“Can’t hurt to try,” said Donna cheerfully, checking the gelding’s gear over. “Not fair to do you out of your mask. Have to take suits this time, I suppose.”

  
“Haven’t you been swimming naked around here for a while?” asked the masked giant with a smile. “You don’t need to swim with anything on. I will, though. I’m going to watch you for a while, then go make sure of Lamanda and President Gorunda, as well as a few others. If I can’t find Heloise’s swim gear, I’ll ask someone to bring some with them. What size fin do you wear?”

  
“I don’t know,” the blond confessed. “My shoe size is nine, though. No remarks on my form from you, now, Kit. I’ve only been practicing a couple of days, now. Come, Tim.”

  
Much later that night, after a bruising, but instructive fencing match, the two lovers lay momentarily exhausted by their amorous play. Donna snuggled with her lover under the covers of the big bed, and again felt unseen eyes on her, not as if an enemy watched, but there. She sat bolt upright and turned up the lamp above the headboard.

  
“What’s wrong, Donna?” asked the surprised man beside her. “What are you looking for?”

  
“I don’t know, Kit,” she told him, eyes vainly trying to pierce the darker places beyond the lamplight. “I keep feeling someone watching me, as if I were being spied on. It’s not the first time, either. And there’s never anyone there. Never. Maybe I’m going batty.”

  
“Uh, now’s probably not a good time to mention it,” he said cautiously, “but I can see my father right about where you’re looking. Can you still feel the watching?”

  
“Your father’s been watching me?” asked Donna, not certain if she was relieved or angry, or even more worried. “I’ve been sensing him?”

  
“Point your finger at the feeling,” her naked lover advised, smiling. “He’s going to move around, try to follow him.”

  
“Alright,” said Donna reluctantly. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of unseen, possibly dead, eyes. Her finger moved unerringly, tracking the ghost of the Twenty-first Phantom around the bedroom. “How am I doing?”

  
“Dad says that the contact with your sea spirit has done something to open your mind to other spirits, enabling you to sense him,” the Phantom at her side relayed. “He says it could also be the drink Dandoli gave you, or just the bond we’re forging between us. Or all of it. No, I’m not going to tell her that!”

  
As the last sentence had not been addressed to her, Donna opened her eyes to stare at her lover. Her finger pointed to the area of the room that he now glared at. She tried squinting, but could still make out nothing in that part of the room. 

  
“Tell me what?” she asked, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Now you have to tell me, Kit.”

  
“Uh, I’d rather not,” he said, blushing, to her delight. “It was rather rude. I guess he thinks he can get away with that, now that he’s dead.”

  
“Oh, come on, Kit,” she wheedled. “We’re sitting here in bed, naked. And, like you said, he’s a ghost. It’s not like he’s going to do anything. Sticks and ectoplasm, you know. Was it a suggestion on technique, a dirty limerick? Tell!”

  
“Donna, I love you madly,” he sighed, “but you haven’t the modesty of a filly in heat. Alright, Dad says to tell you that you have nice breasts. And he’s about to die laughing. Again.”

  
“Oh, is that all,” she giggled at her fiance’s face. “Can he hear me?”

  
“He certainly can,” said the giant beside her, smiling at his near-wife’s amusement. It was kind of funny, if you thought about it.

  
“Then, thank you very much,” she said politely. “I see your blind spot is hereditary, Kit. Is he here for a reason, or just, uh, amusement?”

  
“He says he’s been keeping an eye on you,” reported the reluctant interpreter. “That’s nice, Dad, but, if you don’t mind, we were kind of busy before you showed up. I know, Donna can’t see you, but I can. Now, go away, will you? Please?”

  
“How’s he expect you to get any grandchildren for him if he’s watching you?” wondered Donna innocently. Her feeling was suddenly gone, a fading of sorts.

  
“Oh, Donna, thank you,” he said, relaxing slightly and pulling her over onto his broad chest. “I never really realized how awkward that could be. Where’s Mom, do you suppose, when I need her?”

  
“How am I to know, lover?” laughed Donna, kissing him on his nose. “I can’t even see him. It’s nice you can still talk, though, even if he is inconvenient. God knows, my parents are inconvenient enough, and everyone can see and hear them. At least they’ll only be here for a few days.”

  
“Do you want to let them stay on the Beach, or shall we put them up here?” mused the Phantom, admitting to himself that the ghost of his father had been right. They were nice, especially this close.

  
“Are there others who are staying on the Beach?” asked Donna, reaching up to turn down the lamp. The process had the added benefit of moving the anatomy in question into close range for her lover’s scrutiny. “Like a camp or something?”

  
“Yes, quite a few,” he said, nuzzling her as she moved above him. “The Chiefs will leave their entourages at a respectful distance, most of them, but most of the guests will be staying at least two days. The Jade Hut is often used in the spring for mass marriages by the Mori and the Oogaan, for luck, they say, so many people know where it is. That’s why so many of the Bandar go so soon, to make shelters for the guests. Else we could just all go the day before. But rain is not unheard of, and some people will want privacy.”

  
“Then let them stay with everyone else,” Donna decided, feeling quite pleased with her lover’s ability to return to the important part of the evening. “Do them good to meet a few people outside their little social circle. Too bad I can’t introduce them to your father.”

  
“I’m pretty sure I’ll be enough of a shock,” he told her, pulling her down so that he could kiss her lips, not just her breasts. “Now, where were we?"


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duncan McLeod arrives in the Deep Woods

The next morning, having found no other mask or fins, the couple saddled their horses and went to the golden beach. Zarala made certain they were gone, and then went on a carefully detailed inspection tour of the growing cross-country course, guided by some of its builders. She was considered an expert, in spite of her protests, by most of the Bandar, since she was, in comparison to them. The jumps looked alright to her, if a bit frightening. Their builders, including Jokan, were proud of them, and were looking forward to Donna’s discovery of their wedding gift. Zarala wondered if she would ever be able to jump such things.

  
Donna and the Phantom found the beach at Keelawee no longer deserted, but every face was familiar and friendly. Devil and the horses were left to their own devices as the two tall people wandered about the temporary village that had been thrown up near the rocks Donna had drunk from. Palm thatched lean-tos were the common shelter type, easily made, and easily dismantled, Donna was informed. Fire rings were being constructed in the area nearer the jungle, where smoke would keep wild animals away and not bother people with the onshore flow of air. The area beside the Jade Hut was set with sections of driftwood trunks arranged like the bench pews of a church. The wide aisle between them was grassy and smooth, the Hut sparkling like a promise at its end.

  
“I guess we’ll have the Presidents stand there and do the deed,” he told her as they dug up the plastic bag with the fins and mask. This time they had brought ‘proper’ diving knives, as Donna said, and could let their normal gear stay ashore with the saddles. Devil sat and watched as Donna stripped down and strapped on her stainless steel cutlery. The masked Phantom merely removed his belt and boots this time, which the wolf immediately took possession of. “As soon as they’re done, we can leave, don’t you think?”

  
“Most weddings I’ve been to had a reception after,” Donna told him, thinking. “But I’ve always seen pictures and movies where the couple comes out of the church and drives away right then. I guess we can do as we please. Ready?”

  
“On your way, dear,” he said, picking up his fins. “I can see dolphins waiting for us.”

  
“Waiting?” said Donna eagerly, trotting toward the shore. “They must just be watching, don’t you think? Surely not everyone who comes here swims.”

  
“All the Bandar do,” he told her, keeping pace with his tiger’s stride. “Surely you’ve noticed that all work and no play is not a pygmy philosophy.”

  
“Now that you mention it,” she agreed, wading into the warm, turquoise surf. “How long before I burn, do you think?”

  
“Oh, forty minutes or more,” the purple-clad hercules beside her said, putting on his fins. “You’re getting a lot more tan, but you’ve still got that blond skin type. Prone to burns and touchy. Beautiful, but delicate, like flowers and butterflies. And your hair is getting a little lighter, too. More of that copper glint, to show your temper."

  
“You think I’m bad tempered?” she teased, wading deeper, her breasts brushed by wavelets.

  
“Not bad,” he corrected, admiring her body as she wet her hair and donned the swimming mask. “Spirited, like a good horse. Well, that didn’t take long.”

  
“It’s Kupe and Hone Heke!” laughed Donna at his comments. “The big chiefs. And my friends, Kumara and Kiaora, chiefesses. Don’t ask which is which, Kit, I just made that up.”

  
“I like those names,” he told her, letting the whistling dolphin pod push him into deeper waters. “What do they mean?”

  
“Kupe was the man who discovered New Zealand for the Maoris,” she told him, being towed after him. “Hone Heke was a famous warrior chief. Kumara means a sweet potato, and Kiaora means ‘hello’ or ‘good luck.’”

  
“Perfectly good names for dolphins,” the Phantom judged, seeing that they were going out to the reef. “And very pretty. Seems we get to tour the reef. Keep an eye out for lobsters, dear. They’re hard to see during the day, but the dolphins find them for you. Oh, maybe not.”

  
Donna’s escort had left her hands and, as she floated face down, watching the water around her, they tried a new trick. Each of the gray torpedo shapes put their strong noses against Donna’s soles and pushed her a little, testing her. When she steadied herself and locked her legs, they began to build up speed. Donna found that she had a bow wake, she was moving so fast, her head raised only far enough to see where she was going. Others of the pod squealed and jumped as she sped along, and soon she sensed another trio, the Phantom and his not-to-be-outdone males.

  
The dolphins and their human playthings raced up and down the beach front, cheered by the watching pygmies ashore. Hone Heke and Kupe were clearly able to out-race the others, at least after the Phantom had dropped his fins. The dolphins reluctantly returned them to the beach, once they’d indicated their intentions, even delivering the missing fins. Donna was worried about how close to the beach they swam, but there was no trouble. This time Donna carried the fins, since the Phantom now had two lobsters, and it was lunch time.

  
As the lobsters cooked over a communal fire, the Phantom wondered to himself how Donna, a product of New Zealand’s rather stuffy and British mores, had ended up so unselfconscious. He suspected that few other ‘kiwis’ would have her unconcern about the human form, her acceptance of nudity, hers or others. She truly seemed to be both unaware of her beauty, and indifferent to nakedness as a whole.

  
Donna had rinsed off the saltwater, her rose-tipped breasts swaying enticingly in the rock-lined pool, and was now toweling herself off in the shade. Jula had seen them arrive, and food and drinks awaited them, as well as many of those who were making ready. He took his turn rinsing off, the pool not big enough for two, and let the wet silk of his costume dry by itself in the hot tropical noon. Someone had brought his belt and boots to the encampment, as well as Donna’s clothes. The Phantom guessed that it had been Moki, an old friend of Devil’s, and another of Donna’s ardent admirers.

Donna was objecting to Jula’s suggestion that she dress. Pointing out that she wasn’t in the sun, and her hair was still dripping, the blond remained nude for a few more minutes. Her beauty and artless sprawl on a shady rock reminded him of a cheetah, waiting out the hot part of the day. The way her body moved when she guzzled a beaker of fruit juice was enough to awaken his desire for her, never far from his mind. He fought his reaction down, vowing to sate it later, and found the lobsters done.

  
Riding back through the jungle, Devil on guard and alert, he pulled her from the startled gelding’s saddle and into his lap. Tim kept up with his friend Hero and watched with apparent curiosity as the Phantom and Tim’s human kissed and caressed each other. By the time they were again in the Deep Woods, Donna was ready to try making love on horseback. He managed to hold her off long enough to strip the tack from the horses and carry her into the bedroom. It was hours later before they emerged, exhausted and well satisfied with each other.

  
Donna decided on a quick gymnastics work before dinner, and the Phantom, Tim and Zarala followed her up the cliff. While Donna used the uneven parallel bars, the Phantom took a turn on the rings, iron circles hung from a high tree limb. His body obeyed his every command, putting on a performance that would have scored high with any recognized judge. That someone with his size and body mass could execute such maneuvers was a direct contradiction of gymnastic tenets, but as Donna had pointed out to her shadow, he was not the norm.

  
Even though he was doing his own routine, he didn’t miss the one Donna put in, and was intrigued, but not surprised, by her beauty in motion. Zarala had difficulty deciding which one to watch, fascinated by both, now that she knew a little about the art. Tim trimmed back the grass with an unconcern that amounted to boredom. He’d seen this many times before, at least with his rider. Much more fun when she did such things on him, he seemed to say to the tiny girl on his broad back.

  
As dinner was being eaten that night, the first guest arrived, a tall, dark-haired white man with several horses strung out behind him. Only one pygmy warrior, Danila’s husband , Donna thought, accompanied the man, who wore a safari outfit as if straight from a movie. The only unusual note was the samurai sword at his back, black lacquered sheath catching the evening light.

  
“Duncan!” exclaimed the Phantom with pleasure. “You’re early. Couldn’t you wait for a guide? Or was someone after you again?”

  
“Nothing like that, Kit,” said the man with a smile, handsome as the very Devil, Donna thought. “Just bored. Seemed silly to wait. Figured I’d find my way well enough. Can I put up my horses?”

  
“Of course,” the Phantom told him, pulling Donna to her feet with him. “But first, introductions.”

  
“Donna, this is Duncan McLeod of the Clan McLeod,” the masked giant told her. “A lady’s man from way back, as they say. Duncan, this is my fiancée, Donna McLaren of New Zealand, a woman of many talents. I’ve warned her about you, so keep your hands off.”

  
“Ah, fair lady,” said the newcomer with a positively archaic, courtly bow. “My congratulations on your impending nuptials. Forgive my early arrival and, as a fellow clansman, ignore the base canards your betrothed throws about.”

  
“Oh, he’s an excellent judge of character,” laughed Donna, waving toward the paddock, empty now, since Tim was begging treats from the remaining children. “Take care of your horses, if you value my opinion, sir. We’ll save you something for dinner.”

  
“I’ll go with him, dear,” the Phantom said, kissing her possessively. “I’ve finished here. Stay and eat some more. We’ll be right back.”

  
“Spoilsport,” she said with a grin, kissing him back. “Don’t dilly-dally, Kit. I want to hear some of his stories. This is one of those immortals, isn’t it?”

  
“We’ll hurry,” he promised, hoping Duncan had a short story on hand, since he’d had plans for the night that had not included anyone else.

  
The three horses followed obediently after the two tall men, skirting the clear space in which people ate, on their way to the paddock. Donna eyed the horses with approval, noting particularly a nice pinto with a pack covering most of his back. A pony, she thought, wondering if the hidden parts of the creature were as nice as the legs and head. Arab by breeding, she noted, and saw Zarala following the group at a discreet distance, not to spy, but to check out the equines. A washy chestnut for riding, and a rather ordinary bay did not draw Donna’s eye like the paint, and she turned back to a conversation she had been having with Muzi about cooking rice.

  
Sooner than she had feared might be the case, the two men came back to join them, and Donna played waitress to their surprise. She scrutinized the Highlander, but could see nothing distinctive about him that might indicate immortality. He was long of hair, the black stuff rather finer than the Phantom’s, she thought, and gathered at the neck with a piece of leather. He moved with a panther’s grace, smaller and leaner than her tigerish lover, but feline deadly all the same. A martial artist, she was sure, and a good one.

  
“So, like the Valkyries of Valhalla,” said the Scot with a grin, “your warrior woman serves at table. I heard all about your lady’s adventure with the Mussanga cannibals, my friend. I see why you’re going to marry her. Too bad you saw her first, o Ghost Who Walks.”

  
“Oh, no,” protested Donna, blushing as she sat down beside Kit. “I hope you didn’t hear the Mori version. There were only a dozen or so in the first mob, and I had lots of help, really.”

  
“Oh, I heard it from a Wambesi trader, whose cousin’s father’s brother was there, that there were at least fifty, and two hundred in the second group,” grinned the dark-haired Scot. “Must be true, don’t you think? That close to the source and an’ all.”

  
“Next time I’ll have witnesses,” grumbled the blushing kiwi. “Or a reporter. With a camera.”

  
“Oh, enough about that,” the Phantom said, still not happy remembering the blow he had been unable to stop. “Donna wants to hear about you, Duncan. I don’t know why. Tell us what you’ve been up to, lately. Take any good heads?”

  
“I was challenged just outside of Mawitaan,” admitted the immortal, a sad look to his dark eyes. “African fellow named Alhazan D’bai. He was good. I tried to call it a draw, but he wouldn’t go for it.”

  
“What happened?” asked Donna, immediately regretting her words. Obviously, McLeod was still alive, so the other was not. Beheaded, in other words.

  
“In the end, there can be only one,” said the Scot, looking both sad and grim somehow. “He was young, only a century, at most. He was not even very well trained, sadly. Self taught, I would guess.”

  
“I suppose if you know you’re going to have to fight for your life,” mused Donna, “it would give you lots of motivation to practice. And Kit tells me you’re really good. Do you give lessons? Kit bruised me up pretty good last time we fenced.”

  
“Of course I teach,” said the Highlander, after swallowing a mouthful of the spicy ‘kek-oh.’ "I taught him, and his father. He’s deadly fast, though, and you can’t teach that.”

  
“I don’t want to beat him,” Donna told them with a shrug. “I can’t imagine circumstances when I’d need to, or be able to. I just want to be better. That, I might need.”

  
“She’s fast, Duncan,” the Phantom warned his old friend and teacher. “Unorthodox as hell, and very athletic. It won’t be hard to teach her, but it might be hard to find the time.”

  
“After dinner, then?” asked the blond, leaning on her lover’s shoulder. “I think I can stand a few more bruises. Are you as fast as Kit?”

  
“Maybe I’d better take you on first, Phantom,” the Highlander said with a grin. “Let her see what I can and can’t do. No fair killing me just for show and tell, now.”

  
“No blood, no bruises?” asked the Phantom, pointing at his lover with his thumb. “It’s your head if you mark her, Duncan. One time was enough to convince me that I’d rather be hurt than see her harmed. Promise.”

  
“On my honor as a Clansman,” swore the man, one greasy hand upheld. “I’d never do such a thing to a woman before her wedding. Unless, of course, she was trying to kill me. Amanda did that once, but she didn’t stay hurt, naturally. Made a mess of the dress, though. Took her fifty years to forgive me for that.”

  
“Donna is not an immortal, Duncan,” the Phantom said seriously. “She was badly hurt during the Mussanga incident, and I don’t want her injured again. None of the stories making the rounds mention it, but the second group of cannibals almost killed her. I saw it happening, and I couldn’t stop it. You know what that feels like, what it does to a man. I trust you to be careful, but I’d trust few others with her. You might heal, I might, eventually, but not a scratch on her.”

  
“Not a scratch, old friend,” Duncan agreed, nodding as he piled more food on his banana leaf, apparently used to the Bandar version of table manners. “I came for a wedding, after all, and if I hurt her, you’ll kill me, and I’d miss it, so what would be the point?”

  
“You two had better stop acting as if I’m not here,” said the blond, rising to her feet. “Remember, dear, I’ve got three years to get ready. The sooner, the better. I’ll just go get our swords, shall I?”

  
“Three years?” asked the Scot, his mouth full, as she left. “Ready for what?”

  
“The Olympics,” the Phantom told him, relaxed and unworried. “There’s going to be another terrorist attack in Montreal. Our information suggests that the best way to counter the plot is to be there ourselves. Donna is going to be Bengalla’s first Olympic equestrian. I suppose I should teach her about guns, too, before that.”

  
“That would probably be a good idea,” agreed the Highlander, not at all surprised. The Phantom was constantly involved in such things. “She’s good enough? For the Olympics, I mean.”

  
“Yes,” said the Phantom with certainty, hearing Donna behind him with the two swords. “And if her horse is injured, she’ll have Hero. Heloise may be going as well, if she can find a horse. They were thinking about doing it for fun, but now we have reason beyond that.”

  
“Where did you get your information?” asked the Scot, not really expecting an explanation. He stood up and took off his safari jacket, letting it fall to the grass beside the still sitting Phantom. He was wearing only a white T-shirt beneath it, and looked very handsome to Donna. Had she never met her beloved Kit, she might have been attracted to this man, she thought. As it was, he did no more than impress her as someone else’s horse might.

  
“It’s reliable,” the Phantom assured him, accepting his heavy saber from Donna. He came to his feet easily and smoothly, a head taller than the immortal, and more than fifty pounds more muscle. His movements were yet light, easy, as if gravity exerted a lighter hold on him than on anyone else.

  
“Then I’ll just have to be there,” said Duncan, stretching his muscles. “I’ve never cared for terrorists. And Montreal is one of those cities I’m very familiar with. I have an antique business there, you know, with living quarters above it, and an exercise gym. The whole building, essentially.”

  
“What do you know about horses?” asked Donna, as the two moved out into the area before the Throne, the Bandar gathering to watch. “I have a groom, already, but if you were part of the official team, you’d have better access.”

  
“But we might need someone with no connections to Bengalla,” the Phantom reminded her, making sure of where everyone was. “Ready, Duncan?”

  
“Ready, o Ghost Who Walks,” the Highlander affirmed. “Rules?”

  
“Just do your best, Highlander,” the masked giant told him confidently. The Scot crossed blades with him and they began, a whirl of steel and masculine bodies, almost too fast to see. Though skilled far beyond anything she had ever witnessed, the slighter man could not overcome the raw strength and blinding speed of the larger. Every attack was countered with such swiftness that it seemed that it must be planned, almost choreographed. The Phantom was a rock on which the waves of McLeod’s assaults broke, as uninterested as a rock in retaliation.

  
At last the costumed giant began his own attack, forcing Duncan to desperate measures that ultimately failed. When he finally called quarter, the slighter man was gasping for breath and pouring sweat. That he bore no wounds was due entirely to the mercy of the purple giant, who had held his edge several times. The immortal sprawled on the grass to catch his breath, while the impassive Phantom stood with his point grounded, looking no more exhausted than he had after his bouts with Donna. Less tired, in fact, than he did after making love.

  
“Ah,” panted the Highlander, eventually. “Every time I do this, I somehow manage to forget how fast your Line is, Phantom. If you were one of us, you’d be the one left at the End.”

  
“You know I do not kill, if I can avoid it,” he said mildly, as if discussing the weather, rather than the eventual fate of a world.

  
“Neither do I,” protested the Scot. “But that’s the point. Other Immortals often give you no choice. I do know others as friends, even lovers, but most would prefer to kill me. In defending myself, or my friends, I’m forced to kill them. If it were up to me, I’d rather play chess for the right to rule the world. And I’d likely throw the match.”

  
“That’s why you’d be a good choice,” commented the Phantom, pulling Donna to her feet. “People who want to rule, shouldn’t be allowed to. Now, Donna, I think he’s warmed up for you.”

  
“Kit, I wanted a lesson, not a match,” objected the New Zealander. “And he can’t stand up, yet.”

  
“Oh, I’ll teach you, my lady,” said the immortal, sitting up. “But, I trust you’ll be easier on these old bones than the Ghost Who Walks. What styles do you know?”

  
Much later that night, far later than she had planned, a tired Donna lay in bed with her beloved Phantom. She begged him to make love to her, tired though she was, loathe to let opportunity pass by. He gently woke her body to ecstasy, loving her until she fell asleep in his arms, a satisfied smile on her face.

  
She had wondered aloud, once, if Heloise might be interested in the Scot. Now the Phantom considered the idea in the quiet of the night, his own love beside him. Heloise and Duncan, he thought, rolling the thought around in his head, wondering if it could be possible. He knew his sister better than Donna, and it would take a hardy sort of man to partner her. He fell asleep to dream of his sister and Duncan doing more fighting than loving, and awoke with the feeling that such a match would be unwise, if not disastrous


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duncan gives away a pony

The next morning, after a much more active Donna had had her way with him, the Phantom left the Deep Woods to make last minute arrangements for guides, guests and guards. Duncan McLeod watched the blond and the tiny pygmy girl at their lesson with the big bay, then quietly caught the little pinto horse. With a borrowed brush, he cleaned up the Arabian pony, a brown-and-white creature he thought of as ‘Splotch.’ The pony was quiet, kind and friendly, a better match in size than the bay, he thought, for the child.

  
“My lady,” he said formally, as they unsaddled the bay in the shade. “Perhaps a mount more her size would be advisable for your friend. This little fellow is quite a good pack pony, but maybe he’d be a good riding horse.”

  
“You don’t know?” asked Donna, surprised. The pony did look good, his conformation excellent. “He’s, what, fourteen hands?”

  
“I’d say so,” affirmed the Highlander. “But I’ve never been on his back. I’ve only had him since I bought him in Mawitaan as a pack pony. He’s an agile little thing. Care to try him?”

  
“Since you’ve never ridden him,” said Donna, unwilling to put her tiny friend on an untried mount. “I guess I’d better do that. Jula would kill me if Zarala got hurt. And I’d let her.”

  
“I’m sorry, there’s no bridle for him,” apologized the man, handing Donna the lead rope, “but I hadn’t planned on riding him, only the chestnut. The bridle I have is far too big to fit this tiny head.”

  
“And my girth is too big for a saddle on him,” agreed Donna. “Bareback and halter it is, then. Does he have a name?”

  
“Not really,” admitted the Scot. “I’ve been thinking of him as ‘Splotch,’ but I’ve never called him that. The dealer didn’t give me a name.”

  
“Fine,” shrugged Donna, putting on her helmet. “Get ready to pick up the pieces if he’s not broke.”

  
After climbing into the paddock, Donna tied the leadrope to the halter to make a kind of bitless bridle, or hackamore. Talking quietly to him, she vaulted gently to the pony’s back. The little horse threw up his head, snorted in surprise, but didn’t move. Donna’s long legs tucked around the gelding’s barrel and squeezed a little, getting a hesitant step forward, then another. Soon the pair were bounding around the field, chased by a curious Tim. Zarala watched in fascination, completely focused on the two.

  
“Duncan,” the Kiwi said, halting the obedient pony at the rail where the two spectators stood, “this is a fine pony. He’d fetch fifty pounds anywhere in New Zealand. Are you sure you want to part with him for a few days? Zarala will spoil him rotten.”

  
“Oh, I don’t want him back,” the Highlander assured her. “He’s only here because I brought in a few things Kit asked me for. I figured I’d leave him in the Deep Woods, even before I got here. If I’d known you’d use him for riding, I would have brought tack, really.”

  
“Oh, my old pony’s bridle will probably fit,” said Donna, stepping off of the pony. “A saddle may take a while, but bareback would do, for a little bit.”

  
“Then, my lady Donna, fellow Scot in name, if not by birth,” declared the man, his dark eyes twinkling, “he’s yours to do with as you please. Consider him a betrothal gift, or a wedding present, or a favor to me, as you like. I can see that the little beast will have a good home and an interesting life.”

  
“Oh, I don’t need another horse,” protested Donna with a laugh at his anachronistic speech. “But I know someone who does. Come on, Zarala, try him.”

  
“Oh, Lady Donna, truly?” asked the tiny girl, hardly daring to breath, lest it be a dream after all.

  
“Sure,” said the blond, catching up the pygmy girl and setting her on the pony’s back. “Just to get the feel of him, for now. Then, this afternoon, we’ll see what we’ve got to fit him, and you can really try him out. Someone put some training into him, I think. Go on, try his gaits.”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” said the tiny girl, rapture in her eyes. She heeled the pony out into the field, watched by the two tall Europeans. Donna watched with two viewpoints, her heart and her mind. She evaluated the pony, the rider and the pairing with her head, but with her heart she saw the joy, knew the exhilaration of a first horse once again.

  
“Now, Lady Donna, I’ll be having to find you another wedding gift,” scolded the Highlander with a grin. “It’s fair difficult choosing a gift for someone you don’t know, especially someone marrying him.”

  
“Zarala was my first friend here,” Donna told him softly, enjoying the sight of Zarala laughing on the pinto as they cantered about. “Her happiness is your gift to me, Duncan McLeod, and I will not forget. Had she been mounted when she helped me fight the Mussanga, I could have spared everyone a great deal of worry, you know. See how she smiles, there? It is a present fit for a king, my friend, a heart’s wish granted.”

  
“Ah, then I am pleased as well, my lady,” said the dark-haired Scot around a lump in his throat. He saw tears in her eyes above the smile, and realized that again a Phantom had found a great woman to marry. Why couldn’t he have that kind of luck, he wondered, torn between jealousy and happiness for his old friend. Happiness won out, for jealousy was pointless, after all. This woman would no more betray her husband-to-be for him than she would ill-treat a horse.

  
“All these years I’ve been doing it wrong,” he laughed, as the pony bounced toward them. “I’ve tried flowers, candy, poetry and song, an all along I should have been wooing the fair sex with horses. Next time I shall try that, dear ladies.”

  
“It would have worked with me,” Donna told him, taking the pony’s halter. “Before I met Kit, anyway. But now, I guess I’m out of play. Spoiled me for anyone else, ever. He’s got a sister, though. Do you know her?”

  
“Know her?” he exclaimed with a laugh. “I taught her to fence, too, you know. They could both beat me when they were eleven years old. Amanda works for her, now and then, and I have, too. She isn’t as strong, but she’s, well, more devious. Still just as fast as her brother, though.”

  
“No doubt,” said Donna absently, staring into Zarala’s radiant face, communing on a level that made words irrelevant. Zarala flung herself at the blond, straight from the pony’s back. Crying and laughing with joy, the girl held to Donna’s neck like a child half her age, the woman’s eyes streaming, as well. The pony regarded this display with disinterest, putting his head down to graze and promptly stepping on his makeshift reins.

  
Duncan untangled the pinto and let the little horse loose to graze in peace. The creature set to work on the serious business of eating, ignoring the strange, incomprehensible two-legged things. Zarala sniffled happily in the blonde’s arms, watching the pinto with a heart so full she felt it might burst.

  
“What will you call him?” asked Donna of her friend, sniffling herself. “He needs a better name than ‘Splotch.’ No offense, Duncan.”

  
“None taken. But don’t decide now,” advised the Scot, leaning on the fence, amused by the fuss they were making. “Think about it for a bit. If you choose now, you’re likely to give him a name that won’t fit him.”

  
“I had a friend who named her pony ‘Angel,’” agreed Donna, wiping her eyes. “He turned out to be a little demon, knew every bad trick in the book. His name should have been ‘Imp’ or ‘Loki' or something like that. Duncan’s right, Zarala, take your time.”

  
“Is that how you named Tim?” asked the tiny girl, still sniffling and aglow.

  
“He came with the name ‘Timon of Athens,’” Donna told the two. “His racing name, registered. His sire was ‘Playwrite,’ his dam ‘Acting Athena’ out of ‘Athenian.’ Seemed a reasonable name, I guess, if you hadn’t read the play. The title character is a misanthrope, hates everyone, plots to destroy Athens, about as different from my dear, sweet Tim’s personality as can be.”

  
“Tim likes almost everyone,” agreed Zarala, taking a moment to think, rather than to feel. “Except for the Mussanga.”

  
“He doesn’t like people who threaten me,” nodded Donna. “Or his friends. He’s almost possessive, really. He’d be positively rude to my boyfriends.”

  
“How?” Duncan wanted to know, as they turned and walked into the shade. “Did he kick them? I used to have a horse who did that.”

  
“Nothing so unmannerly as that,” giggled Donna, putting down the tiny girl. “He’s got better manners than most people, me included. No, he’d turn his tail to them, ignore them, walk between them and me, ‘accidentally’ swat them with his tail, that sort of thing. He never actually kicked at anyone that I know about, until we met the Walton Ripper.”

  
“You were a part of that?” asked the Scot, surprised. “Of course, it all fits. That’s been headline news all over ANZAC territory for weeks. The mysteriously gift-wrapped madwoman found at the scene of the crime, no one taking credit for it. A month ago, almost, now, wasn’t it?”

  
“No, Kit caught her,” insisted the woman as they walked back toward the Skull Cave. “I just kept her from escaping. Until she tried to kill him, that is. I kind of took her down, then.”

  
“I know the story,” Zarala confided to the Immortal. “I heard the Ghost Who Walks tell my Uncle Guran. Tim tracked the Ripper in the dark like a hound. When she tried to cut his throat with a knife, Lady Donna made Tim hit her, then, when she was down, Lady Donna choked her out. She thought he’d been killed, you know, so she was angry.”

  
“So it was you, your horse and the Phantom who caught the Walton Ripper?” asked the Highlander, not sure he had followed the story. It sounded like he needed a more detailed report from the Phantom. “And you left her tied up with her latest victim?”

  
“Kit did,” confirmed Donna, picking a banana she had had her eye on for a few days. Ripe bananas were a treat she enjoyed at every opportunity. “Professor Temotu was a friend of mine. I wasn’t very steady at the time.”

  
“Your first violent death?” asked the Scot gently, picking another banana for Zarala, and one for himself.

  
“Unless you count Kit’s death from smoke inhalation,” admitted the blond around her mouthful of banana. “First permanent, bloody death, of a human, anyway.”

  
“Unless you’re a sociopath, as they call people without a conscience these days, it affects most people that way,” McLeod told her. He preferred his bananas a little less mushy than Donna did. “I’ve lived four hundred years, more or less, and killed many people, not all of them Immortals. Even before I first died, I had killed, been raised to it, a warrior of Clan McLeod. But the first time is always bad.”

  
“I killed in the battle with the Mussanga,” Donna said thoughtfully. “So did Zarala, much more efficiently, I might add. But I didn’t feel bad about that.”

  
“You were too hurt to feel bad about them,” the tiny girl pointed out, having finished her banana. “And they deserved what they got, anyway. They knew where they were. The Deep Woods are known as a dangerous place for a reason. My people are only one of those reasons. Lady Donna’s another, now. You should have seen her, Highlander. Like the charge of a tiger, sudden and swift, scattering cannibals like frightened deer.”

  
“So I heard,” laughed the Scot. “As we’d say in the Highlands, a woman of parts, indeed. You know, the Llongo insist that you were riding Hero. I guess they can’t conceive of any other horse as fierce. I’m afraid, Zarala, that you are not even mentioned in any of the versions that I heard.”

  
“Good,” said the pixie with satisfaction. “That’s how it’s supposed to be. Lady Donna told me that you have to be fast and smart, if you’re a woman, and even sneakier if you’re small, like me. Best if no one knows about me at all, don’t you think?”

  
“That’s how we Immortals live,” agreed Duncan, picking an orange from a tree as they strolled past. “This is one of the very few places on Earth that I don’t have to watch what I say, or worry about who might notice. If no one knows about Immortals, we can live fairly normal lives, if we want to. If people knew about us, we’d never be safe.”

  
“I don’t see why people would care,” Zarala said, curiously. “You can’t help being what you are.”

  
“People fear what they don’t understand,” the Scot told her, sitting on a log by the bathing pool. “Worse, they would be jealous of our lives, compared to theirs. People fear the Phantom, not just because he’s strong, fast and smart, you know. They fear him because they don’t understand him.”

  
“I’d only be jealous of your height,” sighed Zarala. “If I were as tall as you, even just in the legs, I could ride better. But I can’t be that way, so why bother about it? I guess I just don’t understand that sort of thing. Will I understand it when I’m older?”

  
“I hope not, Zarala,” Donna told her friend seriously. “Hating or fearing someone for a difference they can’t help is stupid and bigoted. Essentially impolite, really. And I like to think that my friends and I aren’t that sort of folk.”

  
“Aye, Lady Donna,” the Scot said with a smile, letting his accent thicken. “That you’re nae. Yet, most are, d’ye see. ‘Tis why ‘tis such a pleasure to see ye wedded t’me auld friend.”

  
“Oh, you’re such a flatterer,” laughed Donna, blushing. “I could get very fond of you, Duncan McLeod. No wonder Kit called you a lady’s man. A tongue like silk and the manners of an earl, and irresistible to many, I’d bet. Add in the handsome face and sexy body and you must cut quite a swath.”

  
“I’d hope my manners were better than an earl,” teased the Highlander. “I’ve known earls who were swine, Lady Donna, unfit to speak to, let alone go near. The Earl of Beaufort, for instance, back in 1817.”

  
The tale he told them whiled away the noontime heat, entertaining them both. Before the dastardly Earl of Beaufort was dispatched to his reward, the Scot had mentioned Napoleon, Wellington, and several other well-known historical personages, all of whom he had actually met. Donna was fascinated. A man who had talked to Napoleon, Josephine, Catherine the Great and many more.

  
“I love listening to you and the Phantom tell stories about the past,” Zarala said at last. “It’s nothing like the history other people learn. It’s more like that ‘Three Musketeers’ book, or an exciting novel than what Miss Tamaru teaches us. The Phantom says you have to know that the public facts are all that get written down, that the racy bits get left out. Edited, he called it, I think.”

  
“Well, lots of stuffy people don’t think the good parts should be in the official version,” Donna told her tiny shadow, feeling lazy in the heat. “I think that’s sort of like cheating.”

  
“Ah, some of it needs to be left out,” Duncan warned, amazed at how fond he had become of the blond. “The part the Phantom played in this country’s civil war just recently, the part I played in the Crimean, better others never know. Less documentation on us, the better, I say.”

  
“I guess,” admitted Donna, wishing she could go swimming, but reluctant to strip before this man. Not because she was embarrassed, but because she didn’t want to make him think she was, well, available, interested in him, unfaithful to her fiance. “Thought of a name, yet, Zarala?”

  
“I could call him ‘Napoleon,’” mused the girl, “since he’s small, you know. Or maybe an Arabic name, like ‘Tanis’ or ‘Rigel,’ which are stars. Or ‘Kamsin,’ which is wind.”

  
“Or maybe ‘Haka,’ which is Maori for wardance,” suggested Donna. “Or just a name like George or James or Michael.”

  
“No rush,” yawned the Highlander, rising to his feet. “I’m going to go take a nap, ladies. Tropical heat always does this to me, at first. I look forward to the afternoon’s entertainment. If you will excuse me, Lady Donna, Miss Zarala?”

  
“He’s funny,” Zarala giggled, as the Scot ambled off toward the village, his sword at his side. “And very nice. Imagine giving away a horse!”

  
“Well, he’s right, you know,” Donna said, standing and taking Zarala’s hand. “The little chap will have a good home. Let’s go swimming and try to think up names.”

  
“Right,” agreed the tiny girl, eager to tell her friends about the pony. She vowed that she would be generous about letting others ride him, as Lady Donna was with her Tim. At least, if he turned out to be suitable for less experienced riders. “Maybe we could call him ‘Nemo.’”

  
“Nah, he’s too cute to name after a crusty old sea captain,” objected Donna, as they neared the swimming pond. “How about ‘Quartermain?’ Or, if you want something literary, ‘Ivanhoe?’”

  
“Not Ivanhoe,” vetoed Zarala, hearing children already in the pool as they made their way down the tree shrouded path. “He was stupid, not marrying Rebecca. Rowena was an idiot.”

  
“True,” agreed Donna, laughing, having had the same thoughts when she had read the book. “Let’s see, what’s Bandarese for ‘clown?’”

  
“I don’t want to call him a clown,” rejected the tiny girl, taking off her shirt and shoes by the pond. Donna stripped to her skin as quickly, their clothes piled on a dry log. Shouts from the children already there urged them to dive in, and they did.

  
Donna and her many friends all had a fine, refreshing swim, letting the sun dry them after, and in her case, put a bit more color on her slender body. The children were all very excited at Zarala’s news, and could hardly wait for Donna’s hair to dry. There were plenty of volunteers to carry possible tack for the pony from the Skull Cave to the paddock, and as soon as Donna was dressed, she was virtually dragged up the valley to the cavern.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrangements, practice, a good old fashioned crying jag

Some while later, with a string of laughing pygmy children carrying bits of tack, they gathered at the rail of the paddock. Donna’s old pony bridle, a pony girth with suspect leather at the buckles, and a bareback pad were among the pieces she’d chosen. Each child had insisted on at least one item to carry, so any piece of tack that might have served a purpose was there, as well as some that were certain to be useless. All were faithfully hung across the paddock rail, easily available to the mistress of ceremonies.

  
“Alright, Zarala,” Donna told the little girl in green. “Go catch your horse. He doesn’t know to come, yet, so you’ll have to go get him.”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” said the elfin girl, putting a lead rope over her shoulder and setting out. The pony was duly caught without fuss, leading Donna to believe that he’d never been ill-treated. Tim had come over to see if any of the children had treats for him, as Donna suspected that many did. His tastes were well known in the Deep Woods by now, and often indulged. The pony stood quietly while he was tied and brushed, actually seeming to enjoy having his face brushed.

  
With some adjustment, Donna’s old pony bridle fit rather well, the simple full-cheek snaffle only a little big for the pinto. The elegant head, marked only by a star and stripe in white, looked quite fine to Zarala in the bridle, dark brown on the chestnut head. A very old bareback pad, worn and faded from it’s original Kelly green to a kind of pale grass green color, fit him with a little work. The Arab was deeper through the girth than Donna’s old Shetland had been, though narrower. The pony looked as if such things were not entirely foreign to him, so the blond set her friend on the pony’s back.

  
“Now, Zarala,” Donna told her friend, “warm him up while I get Tim ready, right?”

  
“Right,” acknowledged the proud girl, totally concentrated on her new pony. Many of the watching children thought the pinto very pretty, while others still liked the big bay. Donna soon had Tim saddled and bridled, and mounted him with an easy vault that brought applause from the watchers. Helmet on, she walked the big bay for a few minutes, then began to trot him in circles, easing him into his dressage mode. He felt like showing off today, since he had an audience, and, she suspected, he was a little jealous of the pony, whom she had ridden that morning.

  
“Starting without me, my lady?” said a deep voice from the rail, as the Scot, with no more than a kilt on, though it was more than many Bandar wore, leaned on the silvery wood. “For shame.”

  
“We’ve only just started to warm up,” Donna protested mildly. “And not even cantered yet, so there.”

  
At last, with Donna right beside her on the towering bay, Zarala tried out what she had learned on the pony, finding him easily moved, but not so easily stopped. He hadn’t the fine control that she had learned to expect from Tim, nor the ability to anticipate her desires. Yet with her heroine’s advice and assistance, progress was made, so much so that the pony followed Tim over several of the make-shift jumps. His first leap almost overthrew the tiny girl, but she hung on and continued, with hardly a hair turned. Duncan was impressed with the small child’s courage and innate feel for the little beast, things that could not be taught.

  
Though willing and fit, the pony was still too green to let others ride him who were less skilled, and the other children accepted Donna’s judgement as law. It was not only Zarala’s heart, now, that the New Zealander held, but most of the children of the Bandar. Many a parent had found her words spoken at meals, or her jokes repeated to them, confirming their own high opinions of her. Donna had truly become one of the Bandar tribe’s favorite people, not only for her betrothed’s sake, but for her generous heart and good humor, her willing attitude and selfless character. A less aristocratic woman was hard to imagine for the egalitarian pygmy tribe.

  
“What do you think of him?” Donna asked her tiny compatriot, as they unsaddled the horses. Zarala was happy to be able to do that at last, for the pony, if not for Tim. “Does he seem easier to sit, to get your leg on?”

  
“Oh, he’s easier to stay on,” agreed the girl, hanging the pad on the lower fence rail, where another child promptly took it to a sunny spot to dry out. Donna’s pads were treated with the same attention, for all this equipment was hers and would be treated respectfully. Not a few shook their heads at the state of the old pad that had been on the pony. “But he’s, well, sort of rough on his reaction times, not very sure what to do, or if he wants to obey. And he seems a little, um, not slow, but bouncy, kind of, in his paces. Tim’s long and smooth, but he’s kind of bumpy.”

  
“That’s because he’s shorter gaited than Tim,” Donna told her, scratching Tim’s neck as she took off his bridle. Willing hands took the headstall to the rack where his saddle already rested. “His stride doesn’t reach out like a thoroughbred should, you see? It’s more up-and-down, rather than back-and-forth. Not as smooth, but dressage and work can smooth a lot of that out, depending on his age. Do you know his age, Duncan?”

  
“Not very old,” shrugged the Immortal, his face darkening with stubble already. “I only needed a pack pony for a few weeks. Age didn’t seem so much a factor as strength and fitness.”

  
“Well, let’s have a look, then,” said Donna, and to the delight of the children watching, opened the startled animal’s mouth and peered at his teeth. “Mm, seven, maybe eight, I’d say. Dr. Dorn would need to check for certain, but young, really. Dressage should help his gaits quite a bit, then. Much older and they’re too stiff and set in their ways to supple up much. Who did you buy him from?”

  
“A man in the Beast Market,” said the Scot. “He had a few horses, some goats, a camel, a pig, half a dozen cows. Didn’t look like he cared much about where they came from or where they went. This was the only decent equine he had. I couldn’t afford any mules, they command too high a price for a short trip. I bought the others from another dealer.”

  
“I’d like to know who trained him,” the woman said, rubbing down the bay, who leaned into her hands. “Sometimes it helps to know their history. He’s been well treated, and he’ll be a nice pony for children, eventually, even when Zarala gets too good for him. It’ll be good experience for you, partner. Nothing quite like teaching a horse yourself.”

  
“I think I’ll call him ‘Patches,’ for now,” the girl said, brushing the Arab. His head was too high, and his back was out of sight, but she could reach if she stood on a bucket or a rock. “And teach him to lay down, first. How do you start?”

  
The remainder of the afternoon was spent with the pony, teaching him to lay down and get up on command, petting and playing with Tim. The children, and Duncan, too, to his surprise, learned a bit about applied psychology, the equine mind, and even themselves. How to get what you want from a horse, Donna told them, was only a little different from getting what you want from a human. The children went home to dinner with much to think about, and Donna saw her lover return just in time to join them for dinner.

  
“Hello, darling,” she called, waving at him as Hero trotted by. “I’ll have your steak ready in fifteen minutes, or so. Don’t be long.”

  
“Be there before then,” he promised as he passed the semi-outdoor kitchen. The stallion, his rider still mounted, turned into the Skull Cave, and disappeared. Moments later, Hero and the Phantom both emerged, to go their separate ways. Hero neighed a greeting to Tim and ambled off toward the gelding’s whicker. The Phantom walked over to his bride-to-be and took her in his arms as she cooked, hands on her waist, lips on her coppery blond hair. The Highlander watched with amused indulgence on his face and a touch of jealousy in his heart. Why couldn’t he ever find such a woman, he wondered.

  
“Don’t burn yourself, dear,” she warned as she poked at the meat with a large fork. “This wild pig tends to spatter. Did everything go alright?”

  
“Oh, the usual disputes about who’s retinue camps where,” he told her, kissing her neck. “Your parents are in Mawitaan with Heloise and will come in tomorrow to Keelawee. The Bakers will fly in most of the guests, including your Professor Archer, the Presidents and your parents. The Chiefs will be at their own camps by the third and use most of the night to get dressed up. We’ll leave tomorrow, and the rest of the Tribe with us. You owe a couple of warriors a pie apiece, you know, for having to miss the wedding.”

  
“Oh, no, they have to stay?” exclaimed Donna, dismayed. “Who are they?”

  
“Rumal and Kolat,” he told her, watching the way she turned the meat. “Rumal volunteered, I think because he still feels guilty about the way you got hurt. Kolat just lost the lottery. I told them you’d make them each a pie when you could. They don’t know what a pie is, but they liked the idea. Do you mind?”

  
“A pie each it is,” Donna agreed, with a laugh. “You wicked man, I see what you mean to happen. You want me to practice on them first, before I make yours. What a sneak.”

  
“Just survival instinct,” he assured her, letting go of her waist so that she could dish up the various entrees. “How did your day go?”

  
“Let’s see, Duncan gave Zarala that pinto pony,” said Donna, setting the food on the table, which the Scot had set. “We spent most of the day on that, with lunch time used listening to the story of the dastardly Earl of Beaufort, and a swim. He tells a much more detailed story than you do, Kit.”

  
“He’s had more practice,” protested the masked giant, sitting beside the kilt-clad Highlander. “And I see you’ve backslid on us, Duncan. Kilt, sword, belt and, what, no shoes? No bonnet, no dagger? You’re practically naked for a Scot. And alone with my woman, too, for shame. How people will talk.”

  
“Silly,” said Donna, putting a large cut of pork on each man’s plate, a smaller one on her own. “In this heat, he’s overdressed. He’s wearing wool, for heaven’s sake. And besides, it looks nice.”

  
“I’d have worn something lighter,” confessed the clansman to her, pleased that she liked the way he looked. “But it’s impossible to find the McLeod sett in anything but wool. Nor any other, for that matter. ‘Tis as if we’re nae tae leave the cold north country as Scots, only as Brits.”

  
“Like you, darling,” Donna said, passing the mashed potatoes, “he has the figure to wear anything. Not all of us can say so. And someone in your getup shouldn’t be too critical of another’s costume, after all. As if any other man could do more than attract my eye after meeting you.”

  
“Ah, wounded with faint praise,” sighed the Highlander, taking some salad. “How does your family always end up with such wonderful women, Kit? How is it that I can never find such a paragon?”

  
“The old Phantom luck,” declared the huge man in purple. “And you weren’t out chasing arsonists. And you don’t stay wounded long enough to be doctored up. Serious flaw in that immortality business, Duncan.”

  
“That’s not how your father got his wife,” remarked the Immortal, a bit wistfully. “Nor your grandfather. Well, rescuing, yes, but I’ve done my share of that, you know, and usually lost the girl to someone else, if she didn’t try to take my head first, that is. Oh, I’ve loved women, but seldom enough to marry, even the ones who knew what I was. It’s our curse, I suppose. Watching those we love grow old and die, while we go on forever. More than a few of us have let our heads be taken after a loved mortal died, I think.”

  
“Well, I expect you to go on for a good long while, Duncan McLeod,” the Phantom told him severely. “And if anything happens to me, I’ll expect you to take good care of Donna, and any children there might be. You’re the only outsider I’d really trust with such a job. Heloise is family, but lives as dangerously as I do, so I’d like to make sure you’re on call, sort of, like insurance.”

  
“Oh, wonderful dinner conversation,” said Donna, rolling her eyes. “Let me just put you boys straight. First, Kit, if you have the poor grace to die before I do, only two things will keep me from joining you; pregnancy and revenge, so keep that in mind. Second, I’m much more likely to leave early than you, especially if you don’t train me, since I’m not going to stay behind very often. Got it? Good. Next subject.”

  
The Phantom and the Highlander looked at each other in surprise, for such things as they had been discussing were perfectly natural to their way of thinking. That Donna didn’t see things their way was something of a surprise. The blonde’s flashing eyes did strange, yet familiar things to the Scot’s insides, and he realized that he was falling in love with this spirited woman. Figuring he could continue his conversation with the immortal later, the Phantom swallowed his latest forkful, and cleared his throat. Perhaps a change in subject was in order.

  
“Well, the weather should hold for the wedding, according to the weather witch the Mori use. No fall storms for at least ten days, she says. So you won’t need much to wear on the honeymoon, Donna. Just a set of riding clothes, to come home in, when we’re ready.”

  
“The Mori have a weather witch?” asked Donna, intrigued, much better pleased at this sort of conversation. She didn’t want to fight with her big, well-meaning brute of a near-husband, especially when he didn’t understand why she was angry. And how could she tell him that the real reason was that if he died, she might fall for the Scot? No, better to let him think her moody or unwilling to consider his death, which she was, than to tell him how easily she might turn to another. Men had such fragile egos, she had best not even expose him to such an idea, she thought. “How accurate is she?”

  
“Never wrong,” the masked giant said, cutting another bite of pork steak. “Falazi-lun is her name, I think. Old as the hills, and as temperamental as the weather. But the Mori treat her like a princess, and put up with her because of her accuracy.”

  
“That’s a lot more than you can say about weathermen back in New Zealand,” exclaimed Donna, impressed. “Now, how do we take these other clothes you mentioned? After the wedding we just ride off together, right? No trunk to put luggage in on Tim or Hero, you know. Do I stop to change after the ceremony?”

  
“Mmm,” mumbled the Phantom around his food. “I hadn’t thought of that. But I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. I’m afraid that if you swim tomorrow, you’ll have to use a suit, too. There’s going to be a lot of people there, some of whom might be shocked at the bride cavorting like a Greek naiad with the dolphins. Your parents, perhaps, or Duncan here.”

  
“Well, since you may be right, at least about my parents,” Donna nodded in concession, “I will. Won’t the dolphins be surprised? I wouldn’t shock you, would I, Duncan?’"

“Uh, well, um,” temporized the Scot, blushing a bright red in the lamplight. “Nae, nae, not at all, Lady Donna. But won’t ye burn yer fair skin doin’ sech?”

  
“Haven’t yet, since I’ve been careful,” she said in a cheerful voice, forking some salad. “And watch who you call a lady, Highlander. I’m as untitled as the field hands back in New Zealand, and no lady. Not even landed gentry, just working folk as far back as the Clans, at least that I ever heard about. Tim’s got more pedigree than I.”

  
“Lady you are, and Lady I’ll call you,” insisted the Scot stubbornly, a grin on his face and a fork full of meat pointing at her in emphasis. “No matter what you used to be, you’re the Lady of the Deep Woods now, and more besides. Just wait until you meet any of the other jungle folk. ‘Lady’ will be the least of your worries. I suggest you learn to like it, my lady.”

  
“What?” gulped Donna, dismayed. “Oh, no, Kit, what am I getting into? What do you mean, Duncan?”

  
“Oh, I’ll not tell,” chuckled the Immortal, his dark coloring shown off by the yellow and black tartan, as Donna could never have done. “Ye’ll see soon enow, fair lady.”

  
“Besides, Donna darling,” the Phantom told her mildly, “if you go back far enough, there are noble titles in almost every family. They’re just words, fancy names, ways to be polite, or impolite.”

  
“It’s always seemed to me that titles were a way of saying ‘I’m better than you’,” confessed the New Zealander. “I’ve never felt that way unless I’ve proved it in competition. And quite often I’ve felt that I’m not as good as other people. Maybe that’s why I’m so competitive.”

  
“You may have been born in the Empire,” commented the immortal, “but you’ve a very American attitude. It’s the McLaren in you, I’ve no doubt. But at some point, you will have to admit that you _are_ better than a lot of people. Few mortals can use a blade as well, nor ride at your level, nor would any lesser sort have taken the Phantom’s heart so easily. If you don’t trust my long experience, then trust his taste, my lady. You deserve the title.”

  
“And Aboma-Konalh,” added the Phantom, enjoying the embarrassed flush that colored his lover’s face at Duncan’s comments. “The Returned Warrior Queen, that is. Little do they know how right they are with that prophecy. I get called new names all the time, dear. All you can do is accept them with grace as they were intended. In your case, as admiring comments and an accurate judgement of your worth. Lady you are, and soon you’ll be Lady Donna, Mrs. Kit Walker.”

  
“I’m already yours, Kit,” she said around a lump in her throat that had nothing to do with food. “And I have been for almost a month. ‘Donna’ has been good enough until now, it’ll do after just as well. At least you could call me by name, couldn’t you, Duncan? I’m sure Heloise and Mandy won’t call me ‘lady.’”

  
“Mandy Baker might, if she finds out it annoys you,” the Phantom chuckled. “But Heloise won’t, no.”

  
“Mandy Baker is going to be there?” asked the Scot, an uneasy look on his face. “That may be a problem, Kit. She still thinks I’m dead.”

  
“Well, tell her you got better,” the Phantom suggested, finishing his plate. He wondered if he should take more of the potatoes, or if there was dessert. “It’s the truth, after all.”

  
“It would have been hard for a mortal to get better from the kind of death that was,” worried the Scot. “I was pretty much blown away with a machine gun and fell into the sea from a hundred foot wall. Heloise tells me she actually felt bad about it for a while.”

  
“Look, what’s she going to think?” asked Donna, pushing the potatoes toward the two men, who split the remainder between themselves without a word. “Anyway, I’ll bet she brings the lieutenant, and he’ll keep her mind off of you. She’s attending the wedding of someone who’s supposed to be immortal, why not another one here or there? Maybe you’re related, or maybe four hundred years ago a comet caused some mutations and a bunch of immortals were born. Don’t tell her and she’ll likely make up something better than you could.”

  
“Maybe,” mused the Scot, still worried. “Well, I’ll still have less to explain away than you will, Lady Donna. Or have you told your parents all about your intended?”

  
“I’m hoping that Heloise explains things to them on the way in,” Donna confessed, hanging her head. “Cowardly, I know, but I’ve thought about it a lot. What do you tell a couple of conservative Kiwi parents? The wildest thing they’ve ever done is to attend a Maori hangi crossed with a McLaren clan rally. ‘Hello, Mum, I’m marrying a man that thousands of people regard as a cross between a demi-god and a cop. Oh, please ignore the odd costume, he’s really quite handsome in bed.’ Wouldn’t that turn Mummy’s hair gray?”

  
“Oh, no,” laughed the Scot, finished with his potatoes. “Tell them, uh, you’re marrying him for his horse, his personality, and his position.”

  
“Heloise is fairly normal,” commented the Phantom, finished as well. “Don’t you think that will reassure them?”

  
“Let’s see, Heloise, normal?” weighed Duncan. “No, I don’t think so. Donna’s marrying the Phantom, whose sister goes by the title of Rakshasa, the Demon, and whose best man is the Highlander, and who calls the Deep Woods home. The two of them will get off of a plane in Mawitaan, a culture very different from their own, meet the Bakers, fly to Keelawee and find pygmy caterers and native chiefs. Oh, culture shock on a grand scale, even without you, old friend. Lots of smelling salts on hand?”

  
“You go by ‘Highlander’?” asked Donna, still laughing at his evaluation, which approximated her own. “Do you intend to dress the part for the wedding? Do you play the pipes?”

  
“Oh, I’ll be sweating it out in full formal attire,” the Scot assured her with a grimmace. “And no, I don’t play the bagpipes. Did you want someone to?”

  
“No, no,” laughed Donna at Kit’s wince. “But my father is under the impression that he does. If you wear the kilt, he’ll spend a lot of time talking to you about it. There’s lots of McLeods in New Zealand, you know, and the Clans are a big hobby of his, almost as big as yachting. But that’s a national passion, not just his.”

  
“Oh, I can spin clan histories with the best of them,” McLeod assured her with a grin. “And since there’s no bagpipes to play, I shan’t have to lie about his ear. Although many a heathen sassenach thinks good pipe music and bad are the same, eh?”

  
“You get more musical notes from frogs at dusk in the swamps of Ivory-Lana,” insisted the Phantom, going along with the conversation. “I’ll be sure not to join in on that subject. Are we done with the dishes?”

  
“Yes, dear,” Donna told him, rising from the table, at which the men, too, rose. “If you’ll clear the table, I’ll bring dessert. I’m testing the oven, you see, and you are going to be my guinea pigs. At least I know I can’t kill Duncan!”

  
“What, if I may ask, are we testing?” asked the Highlander warily, thinking that potatoes would absorb much of the acids of an upset stomach.

  
“A recipe Tula found me for American cookies. You know, biscuits. I’ve always heard that Americans found proper biscuits, like those back home, to be either bland or hard or something, and now I know why! I’ve never put that much sugar in a cake, let alone biscuits. I made a lot, you see, so we could take some to the Beach. If they’re not good for people, Tim will eat them, I’m sure.”

  
Donna put a plate of brown discs on the table and watched as the two men tried her newest experiment.

  
“Now this is a cookie, dear!” declared her lover, reaching for another and for her at the same time. “No need to worry about killing either of us, unless we eat them all.”

  
“Ah, now that’s the way to end a meal,” agreed the Scot, taking a second cookie. “I’ve lived in the States on and off, and they do know how to cook, no matter what they say in France. A biscuit, in the U.S., is more often a bread served with the meal, often covered in gravy, like a roll. Of course, they don’t have tea, as a meal, either.”

  
“So you don’t think there’s anything wrong with these?” asked Donna, eating one. “It seemed awfully sweet.”

  
“Don’t worry about it,” the bigger man advised her, taking a third cookie. “They’re supposed to be like this. Oatmeal cookies, are they?”

  
“Yes,” nodded Donna, stopping at one and starting the dishes. “Tula had a whole book of recipes, but that was what I had the ingredients for. I wanted to make a ‘brownie,’ but we didn’t have enough flour.”

  
“How many did you make?” asked the Scot, eyeing the last six cookies.

  
“About eight dozen,” she told him, rinsing off the first plate. The Phantom dried it with a worn, but still bright piece of cloth, and set it on the shelf with the others. “I want enough to pass around to the Bandar for lunch tomorrow. You can take those last six down to Rumal and Kolat, Duncan, if you’re not going to help with the dishes. You’ll get more tomorrow, and they won’t.”

  
“Yes, my lady,” said the Immortal obediently, bowing with archaic manners. “Down payment on the pies?”

  
“Yes, indeed,” she said, taking the cookie plate from him. “Now that I’ve got the stove figured out. Banana cream, perhaps, if I can find milk, or mango.”

  
With the Scot off delivering cookies, much to the delight of the recipients, Donna and the Phantom finished the dishes, packed the remaining cookies, and cleaned up the little kitchen area. Donna put the tins with the cookies in a stack of things she had ready for the next few weeks, and slipped one cookie to Tim, who had come at her whistle. Seeing Zarala carefully making a basket up for the trip, for Tim and his tack, Donna gave her the last of the cookies.

  
“Do you want to ride with me on Tim?” asked the Kiwi, as her husband went off with the immortal to the Major Treasure Room. “Or on Patches?”

  
“I think I’ll go with you, Lady Donna,” the tiny girl said immediately, having thought it over all afternoon. “That way, Patches can carry things, like Tim’s stuff, your things, and food. I need to find him a different name, really.”

  
“Well, this is one of the things he’ll carry, then,” said Donna, pointing at the uneaten cookie in the tiny fist. “They’re a treat for everyone for lunch tomorrow. I thought you might like to try one first. If you don’t like it, Tim will eat it.”

  
“Oh, no,” the tiny girl assured her, tasting the cookie. “I’ll eat it. Tim can have bread. What is this?”

  
“An American biscuit,” Donna told her, pleased to see the cookie consumed to the last crumb. “They call them cookies. I made them this afternoon, from a recipe Tula showed me.”

  
“I like it,” the Bandar girl said decisively. “Do you think I could help next time you make them? I’d like to know how.”

  
“Always use a little help in the kitchen,” Donna agreed, wondering where they were going on the honeymoon. Kit was being secretive, insisting that all she’d need would be something to ride in on the way there and back. “Too much help is no good, but a little is fun. Duncan was not much help, but a lot of men aren’t, in a kitchen.”

  
“Uncle Rumal is a great cook,” Zarala mentioned. “He’d likely be helpful. I guess that really good smell this afternoon was these, then, and not Muzi, after all. Zoli said it wasn’t.”

  
“Nothing makes a kitchen smell better than baking,” Donna agreed. “It looks like Kit and Duncan are going to stay out awhile, so I’ll go in and read some more of the Chronicles. I’ll see you early tomorrow, partner.”

  
“Yes, you will,” agreed Zarala, grinning. “Or as soon as you actually get out here, anyway.”

  
“Imp,” laughed Donna, as she walked down the tunnel to the room where the histories were. She spent a few hours reading, then decided to go to bed. Kit could wake her when he came to bed, or not. The sense of being watched didn’t bother her now, it was almost comforting, and it followed her into the bedroom. Devil lay outside the door, and inside she found her beloved already in bed, a book in his hand.

  
“Well, I wondered how long it would take you,” he said, closing the book. She saw that it was ‘Casino Royale,’ a James Bond story. “I figured I’d do a little reading of my own. Do you know Dad’s here?”

  
“I felt him,” she admitted, stripping her clothes off and turning down the lights. “He can go away now, can’t he?”

  
“He’d better,” said the man she loved as she climbed into the bed beside him. “Yep, gone. You know, Duncan saw you swimming today, he told me. He was worried I’d hold it against him. I had to tell him, most of the tribe has seen you naked, and it didn’t bother you, so not to be too, uh, titillated. I think he’s half in love with you, my darling, so be careful of his heart.”

  
“Oh, Kit, I’m sorry he feels that way,” she sighed, snuggling up to her lover and kissing him. “I think, if I’d never met you, I might have fallen for him, but now, no one else will do. I don’t poach on other women’s men, and I expect men to have the same sense.”

  
“Mmm,” said the dark-haired giant, caressing her intimately, finding her ready for him, even eager. “So you don’t want to collect a harem? Just because they can’t have a child doesn’t mean that an immortal can’t make love, you know. Duncan’s last mortal lover died about four years ago, I think.”

  
“Fine, he’s over her,” murmured the blond, concentrating on her lover’s touch as he loomed over her. “Let him go find someone else. He could be Eros, god of love, and not match you in bed, lover. You’ve spoiled me for anyone else, you know.”

  
“So you don’t want to be like Queen Aboma and have a hundred husbands to wait on you hand and foot?” he asked, kissing her forehead as he entered her. “Or, more probably, other body parts?”

  
“Ahh,” she groaned, feeling him probe her deeply, delicately. “For someone who was inexperienced when we met, Kit, you have some pretty wild, ooh, erotic fantasies. Are you proposing , unh, a threesome? Are you, oh, Kit, ahh!”

  
Coherent thought became a thing beyond her ability for some time, conversation impossible. Much later, during a lull in their exertions, her body still in a state of delicious lastitude, Donna returned to the subject.

  
“About Duncan,” she whispered into his ear, nestled in his embrace, remembering his words. “Were you serious?”

  
“Just teasing,” he assured her with a grin, stroking her hair. “But I kind of like the idea of you being surrounded by eager, skilled sex slaves, begging to do your bidding. Or maybe keeping you enraptured while I recover.”

  
“Oh, Kit, I need that time to catch my breath,” giggled the woman, flattered. “But if there were two of you, or even one-and-a-half, I’d die of it, I’m sure I would. Besides, isn’t it usually one man, two women?”

  
“I don’t know, darling,” he said softly. “I’ve never thought about it before. Does that happen a lot?”

  
“I doubt it,” she sighed, kissing him. “Anyway, someone would end up with the short end of the stick, no matter how you slice it. Nature, or the gods, or whoever, designed us for one-on-one, from the look of things. Besides, if you only want to keep me occupied while you recover, Duncan would have to wait around for five or six hours before he got some action.”

  
“Well, I don’t really want to share you, dearest lady Donna,” he told her, caressing her shoulder. “But if anything does happen to me, I’d like to think there might be someone you could find to love. I know, you don’t want to think about it. But I grew up with that thought never far away, that we can die, that we must all plan for that possibility, even as we plan for it not to happen. I love you more than anything in this world, Donna, so I have to think of you, plan for you, for children, even though I don’t intend to let anything happen. You see?”

  
“Oh, Kit,” she said, feeling herself choke up with equal parts fear and sentiment. Tears ran down onto his chest, and she felt herself on the edge of a good old-fashioned cry. She hoped he would keep quiet and just hug her, but he didn’t, drat him.

  
“I just want you to know, if I’m gone, that you should be happy, Donna,” he told her, finding it hard to continue while she sniffled on his shoulder. “I mean, you have the right to be happy, find someone else, you see? I’ll be dead, so I won’t mind. I might even try to fix you up with someone. Can’t you just imagine me as a nosy old matchmaker ghost, trying to find you a husband?”

  
“Nooo,” wailed Donna, tears and racking sobs taking control of her, as earlier their pleasures had. “I don’t want anyone else, only you!”

  
“It’s only an idea, Donna,” he told her, holding her. “Never mind, never mind. You can stop crying, dear. I won’t mention it again, I promise,” he soothed. All in all, it took quite a while to calm the blonde’s emotions down and to clean hp her face. The bedding and Kit’s chest dried easily, much more quickly than her sobs went away.

  
“Donna, I’m sorry I made you sad,” he whispered, still holding her in his arms. “I didn’t mean to make you cry, dear, really I didn’t. Are you all right, now?”

  
“I’m fine,” she said, feeling as if her face was swollen, knowing her eyes were red, her nose raw-looking. “Oh, I look like a hag, don’t I?”

  
“Donna,” he told her, kissing her cheek and tasting salt, “I’ve never seen you when you weren’t beautiful. I don’t think I ever will, you know. Even when you’re old and gray, you’ll be beautiful, especially to me.”

  
“Then make love to me, Kit,” she demanded with a heart-rending sniff. “Make me forget everything but you and now. Love me as much as I love you. Please?”

  
“I love you, Donna,” he told her, kissing her, possessing her as thoroughly as he could. “I don’t know how to love anyone more than this.”

  
He spent a long time, quite enjoyably, giving her as much physical and emotional love as he could. It was well after midnight, entwined in each other, when they fell asleep. Donna dreamed of a ghostly Phantom and his wife, watching and laughing, and of a dark, stormy sea with a core of brilliant light.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Off to the beach for the wedding

When she told her lover of her dreams in the morning, he didn’t seem surprised. Of course, he had other things to occupy his attentions, as Donna soon did. Only later, as they luxuriated in hot water, sated and lazily content, did they return to the subject of her dreams.

  
“I don’t see why you couldn’t see my parents in your dreams, dear,” he told her, pulling her out of the bath with an easy tug. “You can already feel him when you’re awake.”

  
“Then what were they laughing at?” Donna asked in confused exasperation. “Our technique, our plans, the way I looked, do you suppose? And what about the ocean?”

  
“Your Atuamoana,” I’d bet,” the Phantom told her, handing her a towel. “Wouldn’t that be a good metaphor for a sea goddess? And maybe my parents were just happy for us.”

  
“Why?” wondered Donna, rubbing at her hair. “Am I getting more so I can see them, do you think?”

  
“Donna, it was just a dream,” he said, donning his costume with practiced ease. “It doesn’t sound as if it had to mean anything, so ignore it. Now, come on, it’s time to eat, pack and ride.”

  
“Yes, o Ghost Who Walks,” sighed the New Zealander, still not satisfied with this interpretation. “After all, it’s not much different, really, than unseen presences following me around.”

  
Later, packed, mounted and on the move, the tribe, guarded by warriors in festive dress, made no attempt at secrecy or quiet. The women sang and laughed, the children ran about, mostly near Donna and Tim, and no one worried much about wild animals or enemies. The Phantom rode in their midst, along with the immortal Highlander, as well as the woman warrior their big friend was to marry. Anything that bore the tribe ill-will would be best advised to wait for another chance. The trek was little more exciting than a pony trek for Donna, with few creatures bold enough to stay nearby long enough for her to see. The tribe’s hunters, however, made sure to show her several sets of interesting footprints, though, describing what the creature that made them had been doing as if they had witnessed it themselves.

  
It was nearly noon before their cavalcade reached the beach, now a temporary village of huts, houses, shelters and fire rings. The Phantom and Donna, along with Duncan and many of the Bandar, decided to swim for a while, as this would likely be their last chance for several days. Some of the children spent their pre-lunch time trying to get Tim to follow them into the water, with little success. Tim recalled his few experiences with large bodies of water as cold and unpleasant, and did not want to repeat them. Only after Donna’s whistle, from out among the dolphins, did he reluctantly enter the shallows.

  
“Come, Tim,” shrieked the many smaller children, and with pricked ears, the gelding did so, obviously surprised at the tepid water. Donna saw him allowing small children to climb on his back in deeper water, walking about in exploration, watched by parents or other adults. Never deep enough to swim, the bay spent an hour or more with the Bandar Tribe’s younger set, accompanied by Devil, who had been trained to rescue anyone who looked in trouble. This did not please two small children who had been splashing each other merrily, as the wolf took this for distress and dragged them to shore.

  
No one had any difficulty until it came time to eat, when the children had to be coaxed out of the water, almost as Tim had had to be tempted in. Zarala’s report of the ‘cookies’ in store turned the trick, however, and lunch, the calm before the storm, began, as Duncan put it.

  
“Now, I don’t know if I made enough,” Donna worried, as she passed around the first tin of cookies. “I hope so. Anyone who doesn’t get one, I promise, I’ll make more.”

  
Each child, and most of the adult Bandar, got a single cookie each, and Donna soon found volunteers to help her make more. Even those she had considered marginal, since they were burnt around the edges, were consumed with gusto. Tula was repeatedly asked for the book title and formula, and had to promise to post the recipe on her return to the Library.

  
“I know what I’ll call the pony, now,” Zarala decided, having had a whispered discussion with her peers. “His name is now ‘Cookie,’ because he’s small and sort of sweet. I hope. And because I like the sound of the word.”

  
“That’s a good pony name,” approved Donna, still in her bikini. “Now, what’s left to do?”

  
“Nothing for you, Lady Donna,” Jula told her with a smile. “We have everything ready for the arrival of your honored parents and the Lady Heloise. The food is being cooked, the flowers have been readied, the places for guests prepared. Until you hear the sound of an approaching airplane, you may amuse yourself as you like. You will wear what at the feast tonight?”

  
“Oh, dear, Kit,” you didn’t tell me I’d need a dress,” exclaimed the blond. “I should have thought of that. All I have is a pair of slacks and a blouse, or this swim suit.”

  
“Not difficult to fix,” the pygmy fashion designer told her, eyes twinkling. “I have a sarong that will fit you, Lady Donna, and several others for the days before your wedding. You should go rinse off the salt water from your hair, however. Then I wish to see my daughter on this ‘Cookie’ she talks of. Truly, he does not look so much smaller than your Tim.”

  
“I know,” Donna admitted. “But he’s a foot shorter than Tim and smaller around, as well. And short of finding her a micro-sized horse, this is a pretty nice substitute. He needs work, but that’s the way it is with new horses. There’s no perfect horse until you’ve made him so.”

  
“Hmm, well, if you say so, Lady Donna,” said the pygmy matron doubtfully. “Now, be off with you and get all that salt off of you before it ruins your skin. And your hair. Konala would be very upset if your hair was dried out. She’s so looking forward to working with it.”

  
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Donna meekly, starting toward the rocky pool she had used when she and Kit had been here before.

  
“No, not there,” said the headwoman. “That is drinking water, now. O Ghost Who Walks, show her the forest pool, please.”

  
“Yes, ma’am,” said the Phantom with a grin. “Come on, dear. You’ll like this.”

  
The man in purple took her hand and led her off through the impromptu village to the jungle. Devil, tongue lolling in a happy canine smile, followed in a kind of loose heeling position. After a few moments, Donna immediately lost, they came to an open glade, the center of which held a shaded pool. Across some low branches waited Donna’s riding clothes, and she wondered if she was all that predictable, or if Jula was that adept at manipulating people.

  
The pool was sun-warmed and the sand bottom was the same as the beach, that heavy, easily settling silt that left the water clear. Donna and her lover immersed themselves and their clothing, as ordered, while Devil stood guard, one paw on the Phantom’s black leather. Mindful of how close to others they were, nothing else happened, and soon, hair damp, but in dry clothes, Donna and Kit returned to their friends.

  
“Darling, Duncan and I have an errand to run,” the masked giant told her as they walked toward the horses. “We’ll be back for dinner. Mandy, or her father, won’t be staying, but some of the other guests may come early. Guran and Jula will know most of them, and the Bandar will take care of anyone who tries to party crash.”

  
“Oh, you just don’t want to be here when my parents get here,” teased Donna, wishing she could go with him. “Neither do I. At least Heloise will be with them. She does dress like normal people when she travels, doesn’t she?”

  
“Mostly,” affirmed the Phantom, saddling the great white stallion. “Even conceals her weapons. But, like me, she trusts the Bakers. She’ll land wearing her grays, the guns, probably with a little more luggage than usual. I wonder if she found herself a horse, yet?”

  
Duncan, on his washy chestnut, a loaded pack horse, and the groom, on Hero, left very soon afterward, the bay’s burden still unexplained. That minor mystery, which Donna figured was none of her business, was soon forgotten, as the afternoon riding session was about to begin. Not only Jula came to watch, but most of the tribe, since really all had been done. This might have made some riders nervous, but Zarala soon forgot her watching relatives as the pony went through his paces. Wearing a makeshift saddle of stirrups attached to the bareback pad, and his bridle, Cookie behaved well. Tim and Donna were quiet, supportive shadows, and next to the giant Tim, it was clear how much smaller the pony was. True, he was still taller than the tiny Zarala, but he was much smaller than the big bay.

  
“Do you think you have enough control of him to try him along the beach?” asked Donna, gesturing at the wide sweep of the hard-packed sand. “To see how fast he is, you know. If you don’t think you can stop him, say so now.”

  
“If we just canter,” said the girl thoughtfully, “I think he’ll be alright. Is Tim fast enough to catch him, and me, if he runs away with me?”

  
“Probably,” judged Donna, as they walked down to the tide flattened beach. The damp sand was perfect to gallop on, and the blond had wanted to do so since the first time she had seen the place. “Remember, to stay on the hard part of the beach, Zarala. Deep sand is bad for tendons.”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” agreed the girl, having no desire to lame her new mount. “I’ll be careful.”

  
“Then you start off, partner,” Donna told her. “Less chance of him feeling as if it were a race.”

  
Obedient to his rider’s short legs and voice, the pony began to canter down the beach, Donna behind with Tim. The blond noticed that the tiny brown girl tested her control several times by slowing and speeding the pinto’s gait. As they passed the Jade Hut, the elfin girl threw caution to the four winds and asked Cookie for speed. Donna saw her crouch forward on the pony’s neck and got ready to race after the pair if she had to.

  
Surprised, the pony at first continued at his hand gallop, unsure of his rider’s wishes. Then, as he gradually lengthened his stride and was not pulled up, he pricked his ears forward and stretched out along the hardpacked sand. Tim, without urging from his rider, followed at a comfortable distance. As the beach was several miles long, Donna had no doubt her thoroughbred could catch the pony before anything got out of hand. After a little while, Donna moved Tim up beside the pony and watched the pair.

  
Zarala’s face was that expressionless blankness that meant all the senses were concentrated on one thing. The pony was getting on toward breathing hard, so Donna called to the pygmy girl to pull him up. Tim slowed in tandem with the pinto, and they halted at last, far down the beach, again alone on the golden sands.

  
“Well, was it fun?” asked Donna of her stunned-looking friend. “He looked like he was being good.”

  
“Oh, Lady Donna, he was wonderful! So fast, so smooth! And he stopped when I asked him, too!” She patted the arched neck as the pony walked panting beneath her. “He’s breathing awfully hard. Is he alright? Tim’s not doing that.”

  
“Tim’s in better condition than your Cookie,” Donna told her as they walked further down the beach, then turned to look back at their friends. Over the gentle surf could be heard the shrieks of children and adults waving them back. “And since his legs are longer, Tim doesn’t have to work as hard. Let’s go back at a walk, until he’s caught his breath. As he works more, he’ll get fitter. Say, once a day of walking up to the gym, then twice a day, like that. See, he’s doing better now.”

  
“Why don’t you go back fast?” asked the girl, knowing that the blond enjoyed the speed the big bay could produce when opportunity offered. “I’ll just keep walking. Probably. And I’ll bet everyone will be impressed at how fast he is. I’ve never seen him really run, you know.”

  
“We'll let them walk a little more, then you can let him trot back,” Donna decided, sorely tempted by the offer. “He might try to follow us faster than you like, since we’ll be ahead this time. He’s not likely to go beyond where we stop, though, so don’t worry.”

After a few more minutes, with a grin to her friend and a Maori war cry, Donna urged the bay toward the Bandar, a respectful way up on the grass, rather than on the beach. The big horse flattened out into racing speed in three strides, flashing past the Jade Hut moments after Donna’s welcome cue. He came to a decorous halt before the tribe, who were applauding and laughing, and Donna turned to look for Zarala and her pony. The two were trotting toward the group with a relaxed and happy look between them, still not past the Jade Hut. Much of the rest of the afternoon was spent on the horses, at least by the children. The adults had plans to complete for the feast, and some of the warriors were doing a little fishing or hunting, not very seriously.


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> guests arrive, proper introductions are made

Late that afternoon, clad in her new blue and white sarong, flowers in her expertly dressed hair, Donna greeted several people to the camp, as appeared to be her job. One was the very polite and quiet Toma, who had brought his own hammock and a huge pack. Another was a tall, silent black warrior, who had arrived wearing only a bright loincloth and backpack. He reminded Donna of the Zulu warrior Umslopogaas in Haggard’s novels, and he carried a huge bow and a long knife. Not long after Lothar, Prince of the Seven Nations arrived, for that was the giant’s name, according to Guran, the sound of an airplane was heard. Shouts of excitement arose from the Bandar, young and old alike, for all knew who would be on the aircraft. And, Jula muttered to Donna, who would not be staying, fortune be praised.

  
The seaplane landed well inside the reef, and the dolphins made a quick retreat from it, jumping high and backflipping in excitement. The small plane, with economic grace, beached gently on the shore, where willing hands pulled the anchor lines taut. The giant black Lothar, with one heave on the line, pulled the machine onto the hard beach, then handed the slackened rope to a gape-mouthed Bandar warrior.

  
The hatch on the plane’s side opened and out dropped the gray-silk form of Heloise Walker, wearing her weapons as Kit had predicted. A cheer of welcome came from the waiting pygmies, and she gave them a wave and a grin before turning back to help out another passenger.

  
“Mummy!” called Donna, as the New Zealander set foot on the sand. “Over here!”

  
The older woman looked about her in tourist-like curiosity, then waved to her offspring and trudged up the beach. Lifting her cotton skirts, the dainty woman made heavy work of the loose sand, sighing in relief as the grass came underfoot.

  
“Donna, there you are,” she exclaimed, almost scolding. “What is that you’re wearing?”

  
“A sarong, Mummy,” Donna told her, seeing her father exit the plane unaided, but with a polite word to the gray amazon. “It’s very formal around here. Do you like it?”

  
“Well,” said her mother doubtfully, “it’s very tropical, I must say. And your hair looks very nice, dear. Where is the resort, Donna? And your Kit?”

  
“Don’t pester her yet, pet,” Donna’s father said, arriving with a suitcase in his hand. “Hello, Donna, how’s my girl, then?”

  
“Wonderful, Daddy,” Donna told him, hugging them both. “Did you bring the peaches?”

  
“You see, pet?” Geoffrey McLaren said to his wife. “It is a love match. She asked about the peaches before she asked about the saddles. Yes, dear, we brought about six crates of luggage. I’d best go back and help unload them.”

  
“I think that’s all been taken care of, Daddy,” Donna laughed, nodding behind them at a line of pygmy men carrying crates and several suitcases up the beach toward the camp. The smell of roasting pork drifted out to meet them. “Oh, wait, I have to talk to Mandy before she leaves. She’s one of the bridesmaids, you know.”

  
Heloise and the giant Prince Lothar were about to shove the seaplane back into the water when Donna called to them to wait a moment. Mandy Baker stuck her head out the window at Donna’s shout and the pair spoke for a moment before the two strongest people there easily refloated the plane. Very quickly, the engines fired up and the boat plane lifted off. Mandy waggled her wings and departed, the sun glinting on her windows like flames.

  
“Dear, surely that hoyden isn’t one of your bridesmaids,” exclaimed Rose McLaren as she and Heloise, trailed by the huge Prince Lothar, returned to the lawn area. “She told us the most fantastic story about you rescuing her from cannibals. I’m sure she was only making a joke, but…”

  
“No, she was telling you the truth,” admitted Donna reluctantly. “And she is my bridesmaid. And so is Heloise. Hoyden. Really, Mother. Where do you get such ideas? This is Bengalla, not Dominion Park. Come, I have friends who want to meet you. I value their opinion, Mummy, so be polite, even if you think it will kill you.”

  
“Lady Heloise is a bridesmaid, too?” asked Geoffrey McLaren in surprise, refusing to let anyone else carry his suitcase. “But, isn’t she Kit’s sister?”

  
“Yes, but I asked her, and she said ‘yes,’” Donna told her father as they came to the little village. The McLaren’s boxes were stacked neatly outside a large, almost elaborate shelter, one hung with cloth and flowering vines. “Now, I assume that that is your, um, cabana. If you want to change into something lighter for dinner, now is your chance. No? Well, you’ve met Heloise, haven’t you?”

  
“Yes, dear,” admitted Rose McLaren, eyeing the shelter doubtfully. “Your father and she have been all over Canterbury looking at horses for the last week. Very American, she is.”

  
“In Bernie?” guessed Donna, wincing. “Daddy, please tell me that Heloise drove.”

  
“That she did,” affirmed the tall man, having put his suitcase with the others. “Confounded machine likes her.”

  
“Good,” sighed Donna in relief. “Then I’ll start with Kit’s very good friend, Chief Guran of the Bandar Tribe. Chief Guran, my mother, Rose McLaren, and my father, Geoffrey McLaren.”

  
“Welcome, honored parents of our beloved friend,” said the short, stout man before them. In addition to his palm leaf hat of office, Guran wore a palm leaf skirt over his loincloth, and carried a ceremonial spear decked with flowers. Donna had never seen him so resplendent. “We have prepared places for you, and food, and you may bathe, if you wish. If we can make your time pleasant here with us, we will do so.”

  
“Uh, thank you very much, Chief Guran,” said the white man, extending his hand. “Most kind of you to say so. Do I smell roast wild pig?”

  
“Yes, o Father of Lady Donna,” grinned the shorter man. “A small feast before the larger one. It is traditional for feasts to have wild pig, if one cannot find an elephant.”

  
“Elephant!” laughed the taller man. “Well, I’m not that hungry, yet. And surely that’s more trouble than a pig.”

  
“Yes,” admitted the Chief, a twinkle in his eyes. “But for the wedding of the Ghost Who Walks, we tried. It is not the season, sadly. But none will hunger, you will see.”

  
“And this is Chief Guran’s sister, Headwoman Jula, who designed and made my wedding dress and the bridesmaids’ dresses. Jula, my mother, Rose, and my father, Geoffrey McLaren.”

  
“Greetings to you, o honored parents,” said Jula with a dignified little bow. “I can see where Lady Donna got her beauty and her kindly heart. It has been both honor and pleasure to make clothing for her, to say nothing of the challenge, especially as she shows it off so well.”

  
“I’ve always told her so, but she insists on wearing functional clothing, more than fashionable,” Rose McLaren agreed, quite intrigued. “Do you design for a particular school or firm?”

  
“No, only as an obsessive hobby,” laughed the smaller woman. “Perhaps you would care to look at some designs later on?”

  
“Oh, yes, I certainly would,” agreed Donna’s mother. “Is the wedding dress here? Could I see it?”

  
“Mother, let me finish introducing you,” said Donna, rolling her eyes to the amusement of the gathered Bandar. “And Jula is very busy. She’s in charge of the food, the feasts and most of the arrangements.”

  
“Well, I know my way around a kitchen,” declared the New Zealander. “Could I help?”

  
“You are an honored guest,” said Jula quickly, her speed cutting off any comments Donna might have made. “You may not help. You may swim with the dolphins, walk on the beach, play with the children, talk with friends and guests, but you may not work. It is against custom.”

  
“Oh,” said Rose, taken aback. “Well, mustn’t flout custom, I suppose.”

  
“No, Mummy,” said Donna, laughing inside, but managing to keep a straight face before the others. “And this is Jula’s daughter, Zarala, my very good friend and riding student. She’s been learning to ride Tim, and recently was given her own pony. Now, Daddy, did you bring the saddles?”

  
“Yes, Donna,” said her father, having perked up at the mention of dolphins. “Zarala, I’m Geoffrey McLaren, Donna’s father. Would you like to see if the saddles we brought fit your pony?”

  
“Oh, yes, sir,” said Zarala, excited. The tall New Zealander was very like his daughter, and Zarala liked him at once. “But Cookie and Tim have already been ridden today, so tomorrow might be better.”

  
“Horse mad, isn’t she?” Rose said to Jula with a knowing smile.

  
“Yes,” sighed Jula, bonding with the Kiwi matron. “But Lady Donna has broadened her interests quite a bit. Now she studies about Canada and America, how to make leather things, psychology and literature. A great improvement.”

  
“Really?” asked Rose, surprised. “How old is the child? Those are quite advanced subjects.”

  
“She is only ten,” Jula said proudly. “Very bright, if obsessed. Lady Donna made her realize that there was more to know about life than horses.”

  
“More likely, she realized that it could help you know horses better if you knew more yourself,” theorized Rose. Donna decided that she would never get her parents introduced to everyone at this pace, and threw up her hands in resignation.

  
“Everyone, this is my mother, Rose McLaren, and this is my father, Geoffrey McLaren. Mummy, Daddy, everyone. If I go one by one, we’ll all starve to death.”

  
“Certainly not,” corrected Jula severely. “I would not let that happen. The Bandar Tribe bids you welcome, o honored parents of Lady Donna. Most of those who attend the ceremony understand English, if they do not speak it. Now, I must prepare dinner.”

  
“Pleasure to meet you,” said Geoffrey McLaren, polite even with Zarala in his arms. “Wouldn’t want to interfere with dinner.”

  
“Oh, my, yes,” agreed Rose McLaren hastily. “Mustn’t get in the way of the chef. Donna, dear, are you cooking?”

  
“No, Mummy, so you’re all safe,” laughed the blond. “Let’s go somewhere and talk for a while, shall we? Zarala can come, she’s my best friend here, after Kit.”

  
“Speaking of your fiancé,” said the Kiwi businessman, dressed in a set of tropical shorts and a sport shirt, “Where is he?”

  
“He and Duncan McLeod went off to do something that probably has to do with the honeymoon,” Donna told them as they walked up to their ‘cabana.’ “They’ll be back for dinner, according to Kit. Duncan’s a Scots antique dealer, I think, and an old friend of Kit’s. They call him the Highlander, and he’s very good with a sword, and very nice. He’s Kit’s best man, I think.”

  
“The setting is lovely, dear,” said Rose, sitting carefully on a smooth log. “But a bit primitive, don’t you think?”

  
“The setting is perfect,” agreed Donna. “And I’m willing to give up hot water, and a huge bed and fruit trees outside the door for the ceremony. People pay lots of money to do this in Tahiti and Fiji and Bora Bora, you know. I love it here, Mummy. I’m so happy, I couldn’t tell you how much. I have lots of friends, I’m learning things every day, Tim is happy, it’s never boring, and Kit’s usually here. That’s the only fly in my ointment, really, that Kit has to go away now and then.”

  
“What does he go away for?” asked Geoffrey McLaren, as he and Zarala uncrated a pair of saddles.

  
“Last time he had to help the Mori Tribe and get rid of a Russian trawler that was ruining their fishing grounds,” Donna said bluntly. “He ended up having to scuttle the ship, since it was full of spies.”

  
“Oh, Donna, don’t tell tales,” scolded Rose McLaren, fanning herself in the shade of the palm roof. “What will Zarala think?”

  
“Lady Donna never lies,” Zarala said with conviction, running her tiny hands over the smallest saddle. “Ask the Mori Chief when he gets here, if you want their side of it. I was here when he came home, and he was very tired. Do you think Cookie would mind if I just tried the saddle on him, Lady Donna?”

  
“Probably not,” said Donna with a smile. “If he does, you’ll know about it.”

  
“I’ll just go see,” decided the tiny girl, hefting the saddle to her shoulder. Although it seemed certain to engulf her minute body, the pygmy girl carried the leather work without noticeable strain, walking off toward the grassy area roped off for horses.

  
“What an astonishing group of people,” said Rose McLaren, as they were left alone. “And so short, most of them. Do they all work for your Kit?”

  
“I’d call it a more democratic process than that,” judged Donna. “They all live in the Deep Woods together, and everyone has different skills and interests. Kit doesn’t so much tell the Bandar what to do as ask if they’d mind, and the other way round, as well. He’s kind of a combination policeman, troubleshooter and judge for the entire jungle, and highly respected, almost worshipped. Every time we passed someone on our ride here, we got waved at, bowed to, had flowers thrown at us, people sang and danced for us, it was amazing. The Queen, or the Pope, are the only people who get that reaction. Remember when she came to Auckland?”

  
“Oh, yes,” admitted Rose, having stood in the pouring rain and wind just for a glimpse, and having gone aboard her husband’s boat, which she despised, just to see the Brittania. “Goodness, he must be very important, your Kit. And the President of Bengalla is going to marry you, still?”

  
“Uh, well, yes and no,” said Donna with a grin. “Actually, both the President of Ivory-Lana, President Gorunda, and the President of Bengalla, President Dr. Luaga, are going to perform the ceremony. Kit caught them both together and they both insisted. How could he say no?”

  
“Saying ‘no,’ at least to the presidents of small, new democracies like these, can be impolitic,” her father admitted with a laugh. “And your Kit sounds as if he knows his politics. And how to make my little girl happy.”

  
“Oh, Daddy, I’ve never been so happy in my life,” the blond said, with only a thought for her parent’s eventual shock at the true state of affairs. “It’s like those fairy tales where the heroine marries the handsome prince and lives happily ever after, but better. My prince doesn’t have a boring, prince sort of job, and neither do I. Do you know I can make American cookies now? And throw a spear, and speak Bandar, a little.”

  
“Well, that Jula seems a very reasonable woman,” the elder lady admitted. “Does she really design clothes?”

  
“She could give big designers competition,” Donna assured her mother. “She’s really good.”

  
“We’ll see, dear,” said her mother, still a bit parochially suspicious of these people. They were polite, but alien, although their English was excellent. Still, they weren’t British, as Maoris would have been, or even Australians. Though they had better manners than most Australians, she admitted to herself.

  
“Now, Daddy, do you know how long the peaches will keep?” asked Donna anxiously. “If they’re going to go bad soon, we may need to eat them all tonight. There’s no way to refrigerate them here.”

  
“Oh, I think they’ll last for a bit,” Geoffrey McLaren told his daughter, who had obviously been getting some sun. “I had them specially packed, the same way they do to ship them to the States. They won’t last long after they’re opened, mind, but some ought to last until the day after tomorrow, really. Now, tell me about the dolphins. Like the one up in Coromandel, they swim with people?”

  
“Yes, Daddy, they’re very friendly. I’ve swum with them three times, now, and it’s great fun,” Donna told her father. She forbore to mention that twice she had been naked. “No one’s ever been rude to them, I think. And they really trust Kit, like almost everyone else. He’s so wonderful, Daddy. I want you both to promise not to make any rude remarks, or say anything bad about him when anyone else is around. The Bandar aren’t feared throughout the jungle for nothing, you know, and he’s as much as their patron saint. The Poison People, the rest of the Jungle calls them, and respects them, as much for Kit as for themselves. Remember, Mummy, manners above all, no matter what people wear, or say, or do.”

  
“Donna, do you think I’d embarrass you in front of your friends?” scolded the older woman, surprised. “Or your young man? Certainly not.”

  
“You thought Mandy Baker was a hoyden,” Donna reminded her. “As unconventional as you found his sister, I daresay Kit will be a shock to you. Remember that in a few days, he’ll be your son-in-law, and you’ll be lucky to have him. Now, let’s go out and see my friends. A lot of them want to meet you.”

  
“There must be hundreds of, pygmies, did you say?” Geoffrey McLaren said, rising, his tropical shorts and shoes making him look overdressed to Donna after weeks of skin and loincloths. “Will they be offended if I forget a name?”

  
“They were pretty tolerant of me,” Donna assured him, as her mother stood as well. If her father looked overdressed, her mother looked positively muffled. “Mummy, don’t you have anything lighter than that to wear? You’ll have to stay in the shade and drink like a fish. The second day I was here, I got dehydrated and almost fell off of Tim.”

  
“Why, dear,” exclaimed her mother in belated concern, “are you alright?”

  
“Oh, super, Mummy,” Donna assured her, as they strolled out to the tree-shaded lawn are, set about with rocks and logs for sitting on. “It’s just that it’s so humid here, and I wasn’t used to it. Kit makes me drink about once an hour during the day, and do nothing for about four hours around noon. I haven’t had it happen again. He says it’s common now, what with people flying from one climate to another with no time to get used to it. So be careful, right?”

  
“Yes, yes,” her father said, watching the water for dolphins. “I don’t see any dolphins, Donna. Are you sure they’re here?”

  
“They were when you landed,” Donna assured him. “And they show up almost as soon as you hit the water. They may have gone outside the reef to feed, since we all got out of the water. It should be a full moon tonight, maybe we can swim then.”

  
“Donna, we didn’t think to bring suits,” her father regretted. “I suppose I could wear my shorts, but your mother can’t very well do that.”

  
“Speak for yourself, Geof,” retorted the older woman, grinning. “I brought my new suit, just in case. This is the tropics, you know, and I never waste the chance to swim in warm water. A little sun, a little sea, good for the digestion, what?”

  
“Ah, look, here comes Zarala,” Donna told them, as a gaggle of laughing, shouting children, surrounding the saddled Cookie, neared them. Behind, carefully not stepping on the younger stragglers, was the curious Tim, ears flicking his interest. “Looks as if the saddle fits. Thank you, Daddy. It will be so much easier for her than my older saddle on Tim.”

  
“Lady Donna, look!” cried Zarala, leading the Arab pony. “I think it fits. Can you check, please?”

  
“Sure, partner,” Donna laughed, as the three tall people were seemingly engulfed by a sea of small brown bodies. “Mummy, Daddy, this is Jokan, Zarala’s cousin, Moki, her sister, Zoli, who is interested in evolution, as well as the Shaman’s apprentice. And everyone, aren’t there dolphins that swim with us in the lagoon?”

  
“Yes, yes!” agreed the children, all for showing the elder McLarens immediately. “Didn’t you see them when you landed?”

  
“I’m sorry, I try never to watch when I land in an aeroplane,” Geoffrey McLaren informed the children seriously. “And never distract the pilot!”

  
“Oh, Mandy’s a good pilot,” said a voice behind them. “She only gets in trouble on the ground, mostly.”

  
“Heloise,” said Donna, pleased to finally meet the elder twin on her own feet. “I’m so glad you came early. I hear you drove Bernie, and my father, all over New Zealand. I hope Daddy didn’t drive you crazy.”

  
“Oh, no, not at all,” smiled the amazonian brunette. “Tula said to tell all the children to get ready for dinner. Looks like the saddle fits, hmm?”

  
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Donna, her inspection finished with a wink at her protégé. “Better scoot to get him unsaddled before we eat, Zarala. Tomorrow we can really give it a go, right?”

  
“Right!” agreed the tiny horsewoman. “I’ll be back soon, Lady Donna, I promise!”

  
“You’ve turned her into a different child,” Heloise commented, as the children dispersed as if by magic. “She used to be quiet as a mouse, almost timid. Now she’s the leader of children half again her age. And as much more confident in herself as if she’d had a divine revelation.”

  
“Oh, she just needed some encouragement,” Donna denied, uncomfortable with revelations, divine ones especially. “She was a horse person without another to talk to. I know how that is. Daddy’s obsessions are business and yachting, and Mummy’s are jewelry and cooking.”

  
“Oh, of course,” smiled the tall woman in gray. “Nothing to do with you. I can see yet another reason my brother is so taken with you. Come, I’ll show you where we can get water to wash up with. Normally, we eat with our hands here, so clean hands, to start with, are important. But I’ll bet every set of tableware within two hundred miles is here tonight, just for the guests.”

  
“With your hands?” said Rose McLaren faintly. “How quaint.”

  
“Rose, how else should wild pig be eaten?” chided Geoffrey McLaren, as they washed their hands and faces in the water that emptied onto the beach from the rocks. This was close to the kitchen area, and the huge roast wild boar was being unearthed by experts of both sexes under Jula’s watchful eye. “I’m quite looking forward to it. Haven’t been to a good _hangi_ in years.”

  
“A _hangi_ ,” muttered Rose to herself experimentally. “A _hangi_ , is it? Very well, a _hangi_ it is. And it does smell delicious. Will there be dancing, Donna?”

  
“I don’t know, Mummy,” said Donna truthfully, hearing shouts of welcome from the encampment. “Oh, I think Kit’s back!”

  
“Is he?” said the older man, craning his neck. “’Bout time, what? Nearly missed his dinner, eh?”

  
“I can tell you that my brother very seldom misses a meal,” remarked Heloise as they watched Donna run toward the sound of shouts and hooves. “Even missing one is a sign of serious preoccupation, and I hear he’s missed several since meeting your daughter.”

  
The returning riders walked into sight, the Phantom looking directly at Donna, ignoring everything else. He made a striking sight in the evening light, a godlike figure of royal purple on a shining white stallion. Beside his mysterious, elemental shape, Duncan seemed mere background, a peasant squire to a resplendent knight-errant. Without the slightest effort, the Phantom caught Donna’s body as she leapt into his arms, and kissed her thoroughly.

  
“Oh, my,” said Rose McLaren faintly. “That’s your brother, Heloise? Donna’s fiancé?”

  
“Yes,” said Heloise evenly, a twinkle of mischief in her gray eyes. “The Ghost Who Walks, the Keeper of the Peace, the Man Who Cannot Die. My brother, the Phantom, your future son-in-law.”

  
“Fine looking fellow,” commented Geoffrey McLaren, unfazed, “what I can see of him beneath my little girl, that is. Who’s that with him? The Scots clansman?”

  
“Duncan McLeod,” agreed Heloise as the two ridden horses stopped by the pony and Tim. “Highlander, we call him. I see Kit’s taught Hero to obey Donna already. Devil already loves her, you see?”

  
“That big dog is Devil?” asked Rose McLaren, trying to maintain her dignity in the face of such obvious insanity. “He’s a very large fellow, isn’t he?”

  
“Devil is a mountain wolf,” corrected Heloise, as the two men, Donna and the wolf strolled toward them, greeting people as they came. “And, yes, very big, since Kit got him as a puppy, and he’s always been fed well. Very well trained, Devil is, so don’t worry about him. And he loves children, like they were his own pups.”

  
“Duncan, this is my mother, Rose McLaren,” said Donna as they came within speaking distance. “Mummy, this is Duncan McLeod, an antique dealer. And my father, Geoffrey McLaren. Oh, give off kissing her hand, you cad, she’s a married woman.”

  
“But, how sad,” mourned the Scot, his accent thick and exotic, as he played the dandy, his eyes sparkling with humor. “All the loveliest flowers are plucked, it seems. And I with none to call my own.”

  
“Duncan,” said the Phantom, shaking his head in amused resignation. “Hello, Heloise. Good trip?”

  
“Yes, little brother,” smiled the gray amazon. “Tell you later. I’m about to starve.”

  
“And Kit, you remember my Mum and Dad,” reminded Donna, a little surprised to find them taking the mask and costume so well. Although her mother did look a trifle stunned. “Mummy, Daddy, my fiancé, Kit Walker, the Phantom.”


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first night on the beach

“Nice to see you again, son,” said Geoffrey McLaren, shaking the big man’s hand, noting the same Skull Ring as before. “Lovely site for a wedding. But I cast my vote with Heloise, what, the scent of pork is driving me wild.”

  
“It does smell good,” agreed the Phantom, bending over the recently relinquished hand of Rose McLaren once again. “Mrs. McLaren.”

  
“Please, follow us, or the others will have to wait for us, and I know they won’t like that.” Donna led the Phantom by the simple means of pulling at his arm.

  
“And you look as if you need to eat more, dear,” the round woman said, blushing and trying not to stare at the strangely costumed man. Donna had always been a trial, but this was just too much. The costume he wore was as good as being starkers, with the addition of guns, just like his sister. But the crowning indignity was that ridiculous mask and hood. What was the child thinking? What sort of photograph would that make for the mantle?

  
As the Phantom, his arm already taken by Donna, led them into the dining area, where the pig sat in all its crispy, juicy glory, the others followed, Heloise taking Duncan’s arm. The McLarens, behind the engaged pair, couldn’t help but notice that they made a striking couple, and were hailed cheerfully by the assembled crowd of tribe and guests. Offered the opportunity to carve the boar, Geoffrey McLaren made a good job of it, whistling as he worked, and joking with those who handed him plates or leaves to fill.

  
“Daddy,” said Donna from the surrounding crowd of diners, “you’re supposed to carve off enough for you and maybe Mummy, then let everyone else get their own. Otherwise, how do you get fed?”

  
“I’m already up,” he pointed out cheerfully, knives in hand. “And I’m getting my share, never you worry. Ah, brings back the memories of the good old days, doesn’t it, Rose? Nothing like earth-roasted pork. My compliments to the cooks, by the way, it’s quite excellent. Is this on the menu for the wedding reception?”

  
“Yes, if we can get two or three of them tomorrow,” the Phantom told him, eating neatly from a plate he shared with Donna. “Many of us will be hunting tomorrow for most of the day. Lothar, old friend, will you join us?”

  
The huge black prince nodded with a grin, looking like nothing so much as a dark-skinned version of the Ghost Who Walks. Beside him, a signal honor, lay Devil, gnawing the meat off of an uncooked back leg, saved for him by the cooks. Pots of various other dishes sat around in the sand and were ladled out by any who wanted some. Donna’s father finally reduced the entire pig to a pile of meat and bones, and sat down by his wife, nearly full with just juicy bits of finely cooked pork.

  
“My friends,” said the Phantom, his voice enough to cut through the dinner noise easily as he stood. “Tonight we have with us the parents of my future wife, Rose and Geoffrey McLaren. May their stay with us be as pleasant as their daughter!”

  
Donna blushed as cheers followed this little speech. She leaned over to her replete father’s ear and asked which crates contained the peaches in their beach house.

  
“The ones with the customs stamp on them,” he replied, suppressing a burp. “Want some help?”

  
“No, stay, I’ll get one myself,” she told him, getting up. “Be right back, Kit.”

  
Zarala saw her leave and followed on her heels, and between them, they brought back a crate to set before the bridegroom. Many of the gathered crowd looked on with interest, sated and happy.

  
“It’s the surprise I had Mummy and Daddy bring for you, Kit. Open it!” Others around the circle urged him on as well. Curious, he pried off the top of the well-made wooden box with his knife.

  
After some insulating material was removed, a smaller box was revealed, and it’s contents unveiled. About a hundred peaches were packed carefully in the inner box, their aroma indicating perfect ripeness. The masked giant drew one out and held up the perfect fruit to the crowd, saying something in Bandarese that Donna didn’t catch. With a grin to the anxious blond, he bit into the fruit with the expression of a gourmand. The juices dripped from his victim, and he looked lost in the savor of the moment.

  
“Ah, that is so good, Donna,” he sighed, licking his lips and quickly finishing the fruit. “But I’m not sure I can eat that many. Does anyone else want some?”

  
“Even you, little brother, had better not try to eat six crates of peaches by yourself,” laughed Heloise, leaning casually back against a wave smoothed log. “Though you do have a day or so to try, I guess.”

  
“Six crates!” exclaimed the big man, in the act of reaching for another. “Donna, that’s too many. How can we eat them all before they go bad?”

  
“Like the cookies, silly,” said Donna, taking a handful of the fruit and tossing them to nearby pygmy folk. “Everyone, these are from my country! Kit says they’re his favorite, but they won’t keep, so we’ll just have to help him eat them. Careful, Jula, there’s a big seed in the middle.”

  
Donna brought back another crate, after it became obvious that more than just her fiancé had a taste for the golden fruit. The sturdy wooden boxes also ended up as tables and containers for other fruit the next day, as the thrifty Bandar headwoman made each piece do double or triple duty. The insulation burned nicely for the entertainment part of the feast, a graceful dance performed by the younger women, and a very serious hunting dance, in which the prey was pig. The Phantom and the giant Lothar participated in this, as did Duncan, to bring luck the next day to their endeavors.

  
“Can’t I go hunt, too?” joked the executive to his daughter, her face in the firelight like a different person than had left his house a month before. She was happy, he told himself, pleased for her.

  
“Daddy, they want to catch something,” teased the blond, “not scare it all away. Besides, you’re a guest, you’re not supposed to work.”

  
“The McLeod is going,” protested the New Zealander, half seriously. “Isn’t he a guest? And Prince Lothar?”

  
“He’s a very old friend of the family,” Heloise said from beyond Rose, her face etched harshly by the firelight. “They’ve hunted with us before, both of them. In this part of the jungle, we only hunt with traditional weapons, not guns. The Highlander is not an easy man to hunt with, either. Insists on speaking Gaelic in stressful moments, and on wearing that hideous tartan. Whatever possessed a bunch of clansmen to come up with bright yellow and black for a hunting plaid? Why not just wave a flag to scare off the game and have done with it?”

  
“Oh, I think it looks very striking,” Donna told her with a grin. “He’s got the coloration to wear it well, I guess. On me, yellow is a terrible color. It makes me look sick, doesn’t it, Mummy?”

  
“You’re too blond, dear,” said the heavy-set woman, watching the oddly assorted dancers with a kind of horrified fascination. “I must say, you’ve more color in your skin, now. Have you been getting much sun?”

  
“Oh, a little more every day,” said Donna, admiring the way the fire lit her beloved’s shape as he twisted and turned in the dance. “So I won’t burn, you see. Didn’t want to be burnt or peely for my wedding, after all.”

  
“I see,” said Geoffrey McLaren, still wondering about what he’d do all the next day. “How long do you think I could stay in the water without turning into a hospital case?”

  
“You haven’t been out in the garden or to the shore very often, Geoffrey,” Rose told him with a fond smile. “Nor have I. We’d best be cautious. The sun is hotter here, as well. I’m afraid I shan’t cut as nice a figure as you girls, but I can float with the best of them.”

  
“Swims like a fish,” Donna confided to Heloise and Zarala, “as does Daddy. Used to do the lifeguard swim every year. No worries about water. Too bad we’ve no boat, Daddy, or you could muck about with that.”

  
“There’ll be a couple of canoes tomorrow,” Heloise told them, as the dance ended. “The Mori will bring one with fish for the wedding feast, and, of course, one with the Chief. Big canoes, their fanciest war canoes, probably. That ought to be boat enough for you. The Mori would love to take you out and show off a little, I’d bet.”

  
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go out in a war canoe,” exclaimed Geoffrey McLaren, enthused at the thought. “You have to be a member of a _whare_ to do that back home, you see, and I’m a _pakeha_. Do you think they might let me paddle?”

  
“That’s up to the Chief and his crew,” the Phantom told him, pulling Donna to her feet. “They might, here in the lagoon. Care for a walk in the moonlight, darling?”

  
“Oh, yes, Kit,” she said, kissing him. They both tasted like peaches. Donna considered taking a few peaches with her on their walk and doing something erotic with them. “See, the dolphins are back, Daddy. Why don’t you and Mummy go swim with them? We’ll see you all tomorrow.”

  
“Um, yes, good night, dear,” said the two New Zealanders automatically. Similar sentiments came from others around the camp, many of whom had a busy day planned. Donna hoped her parents didn’t get upset at the idea, but she was not going to give up sleeping with her lover just for them.

  
“Ah, Kit,” she sighed as his arm slid around her shoulders. “I didn’t think I could be any happier, but they’re taking things fairly well. At least, Daddy is. Mummy is still a little uncertain. Where do we sleep tonight?”

  
“A special, private spot,” he told her softly, hearing Devil padding along behind them. The quiet surf, the golden beach, his lover in his arms, all made him feel at peace, content. “I built it just for the next few nights. It’s like living in the trees. Care to try it out?”

  
“I’ve been ready to try something out for some while, now,” she told him slyly. “Ever since you came back from your errand. See how good I’ve been? I was polite, ate food, talked civilly to my mother, and all the while I ached to drag you into the nearest shelter and have my wicked way with you. Or even dispense with the shelter.”

  
“Surely restraint beyond the call of duty,” he chuckled fondly. “Social obligations always seem to be rearing their ugly heads, don’t they?”

  
“Far too often,” agreed Donna as they came to the Jade Hut. “It had better not be too much farther, darling, or I’ll have to make do with the Phantom tradition.”

  
“Wanton,” he said fondly, making a sharp turn into the jungle. “You had better let me carry you up on my back, my lady Donna. It’s too dark in here for you to be climbing trees.”

  
“I’ll climb your back, if after you climb mine,” she purred in his ear, delighting in his strength and easy grace in the shadowy world beneath the canopy of trees. “Oh, Kit, how high are we going?”

  
“Just here, darling,” he said, stepping off on a wide platform almost forty feet up. “You won’t have any trouble in the daylight, but I hope you weren’t intending to go back down tonight.”

  
“Not with you here,” she told him, looking around. “My goodness, what a view, Kit. Look, my parents are swimming with the dolphins. I hope Kumara and Kiaora take it easy on Mummy. Ah, Kit, I’ve never been so happy in my life. Every time I think I can’t possibly be happier, I am. Can you die of that?”

  
“No, dear,” he told her with a chuckle, rolling out a thick fur pad for them to sleep on. “Now, come here and I’ll show you. Ah, peaches, again, how thoughtful.”

  
“Oh, I hope you’re not tired of peaches, yet,” Donna told him innocently. “I’ve got peach juice in some very awkward places that I’m hoping you’ll help me clean off. Here, for instance, and here, and here, ooh, yes…”

  
They made love in their treetop bed, the thick canopy muffling their pleasured sounds somewhat. On the bay, a father noticed in a pause of cetacean play, and smiled to himself. If Donna’s mother noticed, she gave no sign, then or later.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More folks show up

The next morning Donna awoke with the sun, alone, her nude body covered with her sarong of the night before, her clothing for riding folded neatly by the tree trunk. She dressed in hedonistic sloth, enjoying her view, the birds at eye level and the sensation of being alone at the dawn of time. No, the alone part was no good, she told herself, running her hands through her hair. That would mean no Phantom lover, no wedding, no Zarala, or Bandar. No, not alone, just a little private. She rolled the furs back up and put them under the sheltering leaves of an elephant fern, and began her climb down to the ground. As Kit had mentioned, in decent light, it was no challenge.

  
She ambled slowly toward the camp, noticing the shells on the beach, the dawning sky, the serenity of the place she would marry her darling Kit tomorrow. She knew that such peace was no omen for their marriage, but she hoped it might be a foreshadowing of their emotional lives. She sent a mental, heartfelt prayer to the Atuamoana that it might be so, and felt better.

  
“Lady Donna,” greeted Jokan, as she came into the kitchen area. “You’re up early. Not as early as the hunters, but early for you.”

  
“Ah, already I have a reputation for sloth,” sighed Donna, taking one of the softening peaches left in the second crate of the night before. “Are my parents still sleeping?”

  
“Oh, yes, and we’ve been very quiet,” he assured her, finishing his shaving of a stick into tinder. “Zarala is with the horses, naturally, and a lot of the women are in the jungle gathering food. Did you call theses things ‘peaches?’ Like the slang ‘peachy?’”

  
“Yes, because they’re very good,” Donna told him. “Like ‘it’s a peach of a day,’ you see?”

  
“I can see why,” he admitted, putting away his knife and taking another peach. “And why the Ghost Who Walks likes them.”

  
Unaware of how neatly he had reminded Donna of the night’s romp, he led her out toward the horses. Tim and Cookie shone like glass in the sun’s rising light, both saddled and bridled neatly. It seemed Toma and Zarala had come to an agreement over the horses, and were deep in a discussion about grooming. Hero, and Duncan’s un-named horses, grazed quietly a few yards away.

“It is easy to get hair white with _tumac_ soap,” Toma was saying as the two crouched near the two animal’s feet. “See where it is brownish? He needs to have _tumac_ soap. All over would be good, for it will not fade his other colors. And even on their heads, it will not hurt their eyes.”

  
“Time enough for that when we start showing again, Zarala,” Donna told her. “Good morning, Toma. I feel like a princess, with my horse saddled and groomed like a picture. Did you sleep well?”

  
“Very well, Lady Donna,” said Toma politely. “The children tell me that you are to compete in the world Olympic Games for Bengalla. I did not know that there were horse contests at that level. Do they race?”

  
“No, mostly jumping and dressage,” Donna told him, checking Tim’s girth as he nuzzled her happily. “Which, speaking of dressage, Cookie needs more of, eh, partner?”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” said the tiny girl, getting a leg up from her cousin, after checking her girth in conscious imitation of the taller woman. “Should we go farther down the beach? We shouldn’t wake your parents, yet.”

  
“Daddy’ll be up soon,” Donna predicted confidently. “He’s always up with the crows, but Mummy may sleep a bit. I hope they didn’t tire out the dolphins.”

  
“I’ll go back and wait for them,” Jokan said thoughtfully. “In case they need anything. And maybe have another peach.”

  
“If there are any left by the time they wake,” confided the tiny girl, “I’ll be surprised. It’s not only the Ghost Who Walks who likes them!”

  
“The Ghost Who Walks had excellent taste,” said Jokan with a show of dignity. “He also reminded me, Lady Donna, not to forget that you should stay on the beach or in the water. Uh, I mean, that I should remind you, oh, you know what I meant. I’ll go watch the camp. I guess you’ll hear or see any new arrivals as soon as I will.”

  
“We’ll just go down past the Jade Hut to do our riding lesson,” decided Donna. “Toma, would you like to come? Tim loves an audience, even if it’s only one person.”

  
“I would be honored, Lady Donna,” said the young man, following as they walked down the lawn. “What is ‘dressage?’”

  
“You want to try that one, Zarala?” said Donna, suppling Tim’s neck and getting him up under her.

  
“It’s the absolute, perfect control of a horse by a rider,” decided the tiny girl, having thought about it for a moment. “The horse is supposed to do everything perfectly, without the rider seeming to move.”

  
“Close,” approved Donna, watching how Zarala fit in her new saddle. “Lower leg back a bit, Zarala, and heels down. Better. Let me warm up Tim a little and we’ll try to show you. Zarala, you try to follow Tim’s speed and gait, right? Don’t worry about anything else but your seat for now. You’ll need to break in the saddle a bit before it feels perfect, but it looks good.”

  
The lesson for Zarala, and Tim’s demonstration, were eye-openers for Toma, whose experience at riding was only a short stint as Hero’s jockey. He was much impressed with the actual work involved in teaching either horse or rider, and followed Donna’s explanations closely. The stories he’d heard of her warrior’s skills, both the versions circulating throughout the jungle, and the one the Bandar told, began to look like no exaggeration. Dr. Dorn appeared soon after the lesson had commenced, and gladly explained what the blond was doing, completely oblivious to the incongruity. That a young black native might wish to learn the ancient and intellectual art of dressage, while not even possessing a horse of his own, seemed no surprise to the German. After all, many of the Bandar played chess, read sonnets, discussed philosophy, why should Toma be any different?

  
As the day began to heat up, the two riders finished their morning ride, Zarala thoroughly sold on the benefits of a saddle. With Toma and Dr. Dorn to help, the horses were soon cropping the lawn again, the tack expertly wiped down, and the horsefolk, of whom there were now four present, were relaxed in the shade. Arrivals were signaled by shouts from the other side of camp, even as Donna’s parents were wading out into the crystal clear water for a morning swim.

  
The new guests were Jean Dumont, the Frenchman, still hung with cameras, though not so many as the last time Donna had seen him. He waved at her as she, playing hostess, went to greet the new people. The second man in the group was also known to her, her old professor, Joseph Archer, whose obsession had always been her lover. He seemed much the same as he had always been, if both a little leaner and fitter. The third man was an older fellow, much the same as Professor Archer, the picture of an English colonial patriarch. He wore the crisp, clean linen of a pale blue uniform, and Donna realized that this white-mustached man was a high-ranking Jungle Patrolman. She bet herself that it was the curious Colonel Weeks, and won as she spotted his polished brass nameplate. She later found that the three men had all been blindfolded for a long hour by their Bandar guides, more or less without argument.

  
“Welcome to Keelawee Beach,” she told them with a smile, still wearing her riding clothes. “I hope you all had a pleasant journey. Most of the men are off hunting wild pigs and such, but I’m sure we can find you all a place to relax and refresh yourselves. I’m Donna McLaren, the intended, and this is Dr. Dorn, our resident veterinarian. That’s Toma, over there, and the little girl is Zarala. My parents, Rose and Geoffrey McLaren, are swimming off shore just now, and you’re welcome to join them, particularly if you can keep them from sunburning themselves.”

  
“Enchante, Mam’selle,” exclaimed the photographer as he swiftly took her hand and kissed it. “You are even more lovely than I remember it! You will make a truly scintillating bride, I am certain. It will be my honor to record your beauty with my cameras, though surely they will not do you justice.”

  
“M’sieur Dumont, you are a tribute to your country,” laughed the blond. “French reputations for silver tongues will not suffer from your words.”

  
“And Miss McLaren, I am Colonel Weeks, Jungle Patrol,” harumphed the older man, about of an age with her father, Donna guessed. “First time I’ve ever been ordered to a wedding. Must say it seems a nice setting. Could use a drink, and a swim rather appeals.”

  
“Doctor, could you find the Colonel a drink of water, or something?” requested Donna, her eyes twinkling at the old officer’s comments. “Perhaps Jokan left a peach or two, as well. We’ll have lunch in an hour or so, I think.”

  
“And I am pleased, though confused, to be brought to your wedding, young lady,” the oldest man said, extending his hand while he adjusted his glasses. “I remember you as a bright student, but I hardly expected you to end up in a field study wedding. It was kind of you to invite me, but I’m rather at a loss as to the why, you see.”

  
“Professor Archer, do you remember what your pet project was?” asked Donna, taking the vigorous older man’s hand. “They always used to say you were obsessed by a wil’o’the wisp, you know.”

  
“Ah, yes, the Phantom legend,” the academic nodded in enthusiasm. “No one in Bengalla thinks that, you know. I’ve even met some people who’ve seen him. I’d give anything to see the Ghost Who Walks, my dear. Why do you ask?”

  
“Promise you’ll do as I ask, and you’ll have your wish,” the New Zealander told him seriously. “You have to promise not to write down, or publish, anything you see or learn here. Swear, Professor, on your honor as a subject of Her Majesty, the Queen.”

  
“Oh, very well, my dear,” the older man agreed, as suddenly he was sharp and alert at the mention of his personal holy grail. “But, then, you’ve seen him, the Phantom, met him?”

  
“Professor, I’m going to marry him tomorrow,” the blond told him, enjoying herself immensely. Why, she wondered, was it so much more fun to say such a thing to her old teacher, than to her parents? “He’ll be back this afternoon, probably. And I have you to thank, in a large part, for the knowledge that enabled me to see what he is. If you hadn’t gone on about your pet peeve for so long, I’d never have known what, or who, he was until he was gone. Thank you, Professor, for my happiness, my husband, and more than you’ll ever know. Would you mind sitting with my parents during the ceremony?”

  
“Young lady,” said the lean old man, stern and erect, “assuming that you speak the truth, I would be honored. After so many years, however, I reserve the right to be disappointed. Should I be, in fact, present at the wedding of the Phantom, my promise will be my bond, on my honor as a subject of the Queen, and a seeker after Truth.”

  
“Good enough,” smiled Donna, seeing the Colonel sitting beneath a palm tree drinking mango juice at attention. “You might be able to find some interesting conversation with the Colonel, Professor. Oh, did you know Professor Temotu?”

  
“Yes, I did,” the bespectacled man admitted, walking toward the Jungle Patrol officer. “His field and mine often overlapped, and we had a lively discussion or two, now and again. Why?”

  
“He would have been here, too,” said Donna a little sadly, her hand on the jade heitiki. “But he died a few weeks ago. The Walton Ripper killed him.”

  
“Good Gad, child!” exclaimed the academic, shocked. “That’s bloody awful, it is. Oh, pardon. Fancy that, young Temotu killed by a madman.”

  
“Madwoman, actually,” Donna told him, seeing Tula and Konala, baskets of fruit on their heads, striding into the camp. “She’s in jail, I’m pretty sure. Care for some fruit?”

  
“A guava would be nice,” the Professor said thoughtfully. “My, my. How do you know the Ripper is a woman?”

  
“I was with the Phantom when we caught her,” said Donna, leaving the pair staring after her in compounded shock. The two pygmy women greeted her in Bandarese and with some facility she replied, asking for a few fruits for the guests. Laughing at either her accent of her attempt, the two handed over the guavas and waved her on her way. The two men didn’t come out of their shock until after she had gone to meet her returning, reddened parents.

  
“Mummy, Daddy, get out of the sun!” she exclaimed in concern. “Oh, dear, I hope you don’t burn too badly. Perhaps it’s just salt or exercise. If it begins to hurt, we’ll get Dr. Dorn or Dandoli to look at it. Oh, my.”

  
“Calm down, dear,” said her father with a laugh. “We weren’t in long enough to boil. Likely it’s just the excitement, you see, from the dolphins. What splendid fellows those big ones are, eh?”

  
“Kupe and Hone Heke?” said Donna, as she chivvied her swimsuited parents into the shadows of the jungle. “Yes, they love to play with Kit. Very competitive, they are.”

  
“Oh, we’ll be fine, Donna,” said her mother, slightly breathless. “They’re such wonderful fun, even the smaller ones. Where can we get the salt out of our hair?”

  
“I can show you, honored lady,” said Moki, appearing as if by magic at their sides. “The bathing pool is not the same as the water by the food and hearth. If you would follow me?”

  
“Thank you, Moki,” Donna called after her. “I’m going to change and go swimming myself. Where’s Jean Dumont? Taking pictures of the Jade Hut?”

  
“I saw him headed that way,” the girl replied over her shoulder. “Your swimming suit is over there by the saddles.”

  
“Thanks, I see it. Are you swimming today?”

  
“Later,” shouted the girl, walking backwards, then disappearing into the forest. Donna shrugged, took up her bikini and ducked into the nearest unoccupied shelter. Moments later, her riding clothes in hand, she emerged to have them taken from her by Konala, who spread them over several branches by the saddles.

  
“Thanks, Konala,” said Donna, surprised. “What’s the plan for the day?”

  
“For us, or for you?” smiled the older woman, pleased to see the blond wearing something she had designed. “You are only to greet people who come, and only if you want to. We will be roasting pork for tomorrow, and grilling the Mori catch to eat tonight. The Chiefs and the Bakers should start arriving about noon. Oh, look, there are the Mori now.”

  
“I guess I’ll swim out to welcome them,” decided Donna, waving to her self-appointed maid and trotting down to the beach. She was soon swimming strongly, gray dolphin shapes arrowing around her. The two big males slid under her and let her catch their dorsals, and soon her own paltry efforts were entirely out-classed. The Mori canoe men were startled to be greeted from the water between their prows, but the Chief, a man of huge shoulders and a fine gray beard, realized at once who this must be.

  
“Welcome to Keelawee Beach,” Donna said politely, dripping wet as she tread water, the dolphins imitating her. “What lovely canoes.”

  
“Blessings of the sea on you and your marriage,” replied the tall chief, the outriggers keeping the boat stable enough to stand in. “You are the betrothed of the Ghost Who Walks? The woman who slew the Mussanga? I am honored to meet you. Would you care to come aboard?”

  
“That’s very kind of you, thank you, sir,” said Donna, feeling a little guilty. She didn’t want Kit’s friends to think her rude, after all. “But I’ve only just got wet, and the dolphins would be terribly disappointed. I’ll just swim alongside, if you don’t mind.”

  
“As you wish,” shrugged the Mori Chief, his look warning his men that they had better not touch her with a paddle, while he sat down. “Akai mor!”

  
The strong arms of the oarsmen, dark and muscled, began to work again, moving the boats toward shore. Donna felt her two living outboard motors snug themselves up under her arms and start moving after the big canoes. Before the Mori oarsmen had hit their strokes properly, she was drawn past them. Moments later, with the pod squealing excitedly, she felt two other hard noses on the soles of her bare feet. Kumara and Kiaora, adding their strength to the effort, seemed to be trying to see just how fast a human could be moved through the water. The blond made several laps of the vast lagoon before the Mori made landings, cheered on by her friends on the shore and the Mori themselves.

  
Laughing, she eventually took her leave of the playful creatures, who tail-walked and flipped in the air as she slogged ashore. Zarala had watched the whole thing, and wondered aloud if you could ride a dolphin. Dripping down the golden beach toward the canoes, Donna considered it.

  
“I’ve seen a Greek statue of a boy on a dolphin,” she said finally. “You’d have to stay clear of their blow hole, and their ventral fins. I think you might manage it, holding onto the dorsal, since you’re smaller by quite a bit than I. Try it next time, if one will let you.”

  
“I think I will,” said the elfin child, nodding. “Shall I get you a towel yet, or are you going to the bathing pool first?”

  
“I might as well get the salt off before lunch,” Donna decided, seeing her father speaking with the Chief, Kaihana, she thought his name was. “Daddy will keep the Mori occupied on the subject of boats all day long. Can you find me a sarong and meet me there?”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” said the girl happily. “What colors?”

  
“Anything but yellow or pink,” decided Donna. She confided, “I look sort of sick in those colors, like my skin tone clashes. I could wear the one from last night, but I got peach juice on it, and then left it up a tree.”

  
“No, you couldn’t,” Zarala informed her. “It’s being dried. Jokan brought it down this morning and Konala washed it. She said you’re not usually that messy when you eat.”

  
“Peach juice can get in the oddest places,” commented Donna a little smugly. “See you in a few minutes. Tell Mummy I’ll be right back, right?”


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding presents and fish fry

The tiny girl sped off, bubbling with excitement, for she knew something that her adored friend did not, something she had learned from Toma. The young man had slung his hammock near the horses, above his big pack, which had not yet been opened. He had confided to Zarala, a fellow devotee of the horse, what the bundle contained, and now they waited for the public revelation with barely suppressed anticipation. In due time, during which a seaplane had landed, the blond and her tiny shadow reappeared, clad in a bright green length of cotton figured with blue, white and gray.

  
“There you are, Donna,” said her mother, looking as if she had not been burned, after all. “I think the next plane load of guests is arriving. You go out and greet them, will you? Konala and I are making lunch, while the rest of us get the kitchen area ready for this afternoon. One of the children just spotted a hunter returning and a few more guests.”

  
“I was going to do just that, Mummy,” the damp blond said with a grin, seeing that her mother had finally managed to get into the good graces of the Bandar far enough to be allowed in the kitchen. “I’d like a drink of something when you can manage it, right?”

  
“Yes, dear,” sighed the heavy-set woman, much more at ease in this strange, beautiful place, now that she was working with food. A kitchen was a kitchen, she told herself, however primitive. And however odd, eccentric, or even daft, one’s future son-in-law, one’s daughter must put on a good show. Konala, not clear on why the white woman disapproved of the Ghost Who Walks, attempted to explain what he really did.

  
Her explanations were cut off by the arrival of the first hunting party, with two boars. Along with them came the Chief of the Wambesi and his two oldest sons, princes in their own rights, carrying the heavy baggage. Bandar warriors showed them all to their temporary quarters, and from then on, chaos seemed to be the order of the day. At least to Donna.

  
The New Zealander remembered some of the afternoon vividly, such as the point when her father, out with the Mori in the Chief’s war canoe, had to leap into the water to avoid a seaplane pontoon. Those watching swore to him that he had had plenty of room, but he claimed the better part of valor. Or when the two presidents, clad in American T-shirts, arrived, helping to unload their own luggage. And when the Amazons arrived, presented her with a box, and left.

  
That last had certainly stood out in everyone’s minds, Donna supposed. Kit had once mentioned amazons on war-elephants, but Donna had thought he was exaggerating, at the least. After all, everyone knew that Amazons were Greek myths, not living warriors. But the three black women who had ghosted into the camp as if they had sprung from the earth had not been told so, and could be called nothing else. The entire camp had gone silent, visitors and Bandar alike, from astonishment or apprehension, Donna couldn’t tell. The trio wore little more than broad metal collars, leather belts, shin and arm guards, and weapons everywhere. Decorations consisted solely of the collars, rather Egyptian in appearance, and a vast variety of feathers.

  
The tallest of the tall women, a beauty of proportions to give Heloise competition, in any physical sense, stepped forward toward Donna. A dozen Bandar arrows were suddenly aimed at the trio, silent warning to an equally silent threat. The woman gestured slowly at a scarf of purple around her heavy spear and the other two behind her, only slightly less impressive, showed similar cloths. The Bandar seemed a little reassured. Donna, mostly out of surprise, hadn’t moved at all, standing with an unconsciously regal poise that, amazingly, Jean Dumont managed to capture on film.

  
The other two women warriors, as muscled as the first, brought a round, finely made wooden box forward, to set it at Donna’s feet. They retreated silently to their former positions and waited, tense, but not threatening. The taller of the trio looked Donna over, then stared into her eyes, almost as if searching for something. A sudden flash of green fire from the jade tiki at the blonde’s throat made her eyes go wide and she spoke for the first time.

  
“Aboma-Konalh!” said the warrioress, bowing to the slightly shorter blond. “Kes donalh m’don lhas. Mrahs’ Khalh, Aboma.” She gestured at the box at Donna’s feet and then did something strange, as did the other two behind her. Each, with their right fist, struck their metal collars, then bent forward, right hand held parallel to the earth at knee level.

  
“Uh, thank you very much,” said Donna, startled. “Can I get you anything? Food, drink, a translator?”

  
“Shushya, Aboma-Konalh,” said the tall spokeswoman, backing toward her companions. “N’lash’kah, olawan.”

  
“If you say so,” agreed Donna with a smile. The trio turned around and as good as vanished, leaving only a few dents in the sand and the beautiful rounded box. It was certainly odd, Donna thought, then and later. Especially as no one could tell her the meaning of the words, although all had recognized the tribe.

  
“Amazons, white folk say,” Guran told her with authority. “Kes, they say, according to the Ghost Who Walks. Man Stealers, many of the other tribes of the deeper jungles call them. He has met them, he told me. It sounds as if they believed that you are Aboma-Konalh, and respect you for it.”

  
“Oh, my,” said the Kiwi girl, dismayed. “I hope Kit gets back soon. Maybe he can explain it. Am I supposed to do something with this box, do you think?”

  
“Open it, I would surmise,” said the Bengallan President, his white University of Chicago T-shirt proclaiming him to be the property of the athletic department. “But I have no idea what it might contain. I, too, thought the warrior women to be a myth. Never have I even heard of someone who has seen them.”

  
“All I recall of them is that they are supposed to be descended from Aboma, the warrior queen,” said his good friend, the rounder President Gorunda. His shirt proclaimed him a Princeton University man. “And live in a sort of mountain fortress. Like the Bird People, they are thought to be myths by most.”

  
“Well, they left something, so they’re real,” Donna decided. “But I think I’ll wait until Kit gets back to open it. I hope I can remember what they said long enough to tell him.”

  
“We will remember,” Zarala assured her, having been beside her beloved mentor most of the afternoon. “The Bandar have long memories. Besides, here he comes now.”

  
The Phantom, Duncan beside him, was carrying a huge, field dressed boar over one shoulder. The immortal was carrying a forest antelope over his shoulders similarly gutted. Devil, well pleased with himself, trotted out to Donna, ignoring the kitchen. Obviously having been fed on the entrails of the two kills, the wolf sat at Donna’s feet and sniffed the box, still where it had been set. He sneezed and then barked to his master, who set the boar on a stone to be prepared by the cooks, then came to that summons.

  
All who had yet arrived, by foot or horse or plane or boat, were gathered around the mysterious box, yet the crowd parted like magic for the giant in purple silk. Respectful greetings, for the most part, were acknowledged with a brief nod, as he came upon Donna and the wolf, staring down at the box. The blond forgot the strange object quite suddenly, and flung herself into his arms, their open display of affection drawing murmurs of approval and satisfaction from the assembly. Professor Archer and the Colonel both stared in fascination, unable to articulate any suitable comments.

  
The Colonel of the Jungle Patrol, having read both the official and unofficial reports of his nephew, was not surprised. What did amaze him was his reaction to the physical reality of this man out of legend. Even now, the old soldier found the awesome figure hard to believe in. The Professor had no trouble with belief, his life’s ambition realized, and simply sat and watched, noting every nuance and word, putting them down only in memory, as he had promised. Having spent several hours in conversation with the Colonel, the academic felt no need to spoil the moment with comment.

  
“Now, Donna,” the legend said gently, “I was only gone a few hours. What does Devil want?”

  
“Mmm?” said the New Zealander, her mind on other things than the wolf. “Oh, he sneezed at the box the Amazons left. I don’t know what he wants. They said something, but no one understood them. And they come and go like you do.”

  
“Let’s take a look,” he said, seeing the intricately made box. “Ah, sandalwood, rosewood, _shahl_ tree wood. Makes him sneeze. You can open it, if you want. Do you remember what they said?”

  
When Guran, Zarala and Tula had repeated the words, he shook his head and said to Donna, “They think you are Aboma reincarnate, dear. The Kes tribe will follow you, if you call. They call themselves your children. And they wish you a happy first marriage.”

  
“Eep!” said Donna, eyes like saucers. “What? Children of mine? _First_ marriage?”

  
“Just open the present, dear,” he told her, not showing it, but a little surprised himself. The Kes must have some reason to call Donna what amounted to their queen, other than just an exaggerated skirmish. “It’s just another gift, given to you. Go on.”

  
With some reluctance, and still not sure she should, Donna opened the tightly lidded container, half expecting something to jump out of it. She had the distinct feeling that she had been mistaken for someone else, someone far more powerful than she, such as Heloise. Inside the box, padded and specially made, was a round bronze shield, the patina denoting great age. The marks on it’s figured surface told even Donna that it had been used in battle. As she picked it up, handling it carefully, as an antique deserved, her jade amulet caught fire again, as if in approval.

  
“Aboma’s shield,” the Phantom said in true surprise. “It is one of the most sacred relics of the Kes. No man may touch it, according to the tradition, and it’s supposed to be a thousand years old.”

  
“And it is powerfully spelled,” said Dandoli, from the other side of the little gathering. “See how your totem responds to it. A noble gift, indeed. The design looks a bit like very old Oogaan designs, or perhaps Chakar. But they never worked in bronze, that I recall.”

  
“If it is so old, I shouldn’t expose it to the sea air,” Donna decided, having had the strangest feeling while holding the heavy disk. “It almost looks like Viking work, with all the entwined creatures, or Maori. But the Maori never worked in metal, either.”

  
“Best to keep it in the box designed for it,” the shaman advised her. “And to treat it with respect. For it’s age alone, if not for it’s power.”

  
“What sort of magic, do you think?” Donna asked, one fingertip tracing a twining body to the gape-jawed head. “Other than really beautiful workmanship, and obvious use, I mean. It looks like it has been used, don’t you think?”

  
“What one always works on a shield,” guessed Dandoli with a smile. “Protection spells, perhaps strength or luck. And, of course, in this case, a recognition spell, or something like it. Do not worry, it will not be harmful. The opposite, probably. But take care of it, for it should be treated with respect, like an elder, if only for its age.”

  
“If my people learn that you have the Shield of Aboma,” said Chief Kaihana, “they will raise the war standard at your word, and a hundred canoes will move at your command.”

  
“My people, too, will follow you in war,” said the elaborately tattooed chief of the Tangiru, a man as tall as seven feet, Donna thought. “The Shield of Aboma is legend among us, as is the Great Queen. The first of my tribe was descended from her second son, a proud tradition.”

  
“I’m not qualified to lead anyone in combat,” said Donna firmly. “I’d much rather uphold the Great Queen’s traditions of peace and justice. War benefits only winners, trade and peace benefit all.”

  
“As the Great Queen Aboma would no doubt have said,” commented Chief Mbele of the Wambesi. “Always, o Ghost Who Walks, where you are, legends spring to life, myths take flesh, the very sands find tongue and spout history or even stranger tales. Never do your guests find a dull gathering.”

  
“And may I carry your gift for you, Aboma-Konalh?” asked the Llongo chief with dignity. “I will take care with it, and will not touch the shield. My wife would be very impressed.”

  
“Oh, thank you, Chief Lagana,” said Donna, fitting the lid back on the box. “But where shall we put it?”

  
“Where all the gifts will be put tomorrow,” said the Bandar headwoman. “Next to the Jade Hut, or in it, if sun is not good for them. Then everyone can see them and know that you have seen them.”

  
“Uh, right,” said Donna, realizing that Jula was way ahead of her when it came to planning. Maybe she should be the reincarnated spirit of the ancient queen. “What she said, Chief Lagana. Uh, Chief Kaihana, I kind of meant to wear those pearls tomorrow, if you don’t mind.”

  
“You honor the Mori,” said the broad-shouldered chief, smiling. “But those were betrothal gifts. Bride gifts are different. Do you wish to see what my people have chosen for your wedding?”

  
“Uh, maybe we should wait until everyone else is here,” said the blond, a bit overwhelmed. “There’s at least one more plane load coming in, and where is Heloise, anyway?”

  
“Right here,” said the Rakshasa, behind Donna as the little crowd broke up. “I had a few words with the Kes. Nice girls.”

  
“Oh,” said Donna, surprised. “Didn’t they want to stay for the wedding?”

  
“Kes don’t feel comfortable in crowds,” said the amazonian Heloise. “But they do believe you are the returned spirit of their ancestress. I’m afraid I’ve just been slated as one of your champions, like Gawain or Bors for Arthur. So has Zarala. Shall I tell you, little Zarala, what your name is in Kes?”

  
“Yes, yes!” shouted Zarala in excitement, pleased that others had at last realized how wonderful her idol was. The gray-clad woman scooped up the tiny child and tossed her in the air, catching her easily and putting her on her shoulders.

  
“You are called ‘Danhseh,’ which roughly translates to ‘Shadow.’ The Kes say Aboma had a tiny assassin-bodyguard, and you are obviously her. Guard our leader well, Danhseh, and keep her safe from wayward, oof, wolves. Devil, get down.”

  
“Donna, what was all that about?” asked her father. “Who’s this Aboma?”

  
“I’ve been given the title of the returned Aboma, Daddy,” Donna told her parents, sitting on a log next to them. Rose McLaren was taking a break before the evening fish fry. For two or three hundred people, a challenge even for her mother, Donna thought. “Rather a female King Arthur legend, you see. I had a little fight with some unpleasant marauders, and poof! I’m a warrior queen who’s been dead a thousand years. Half the tribes in the jungle are ready to make me queen, and apparently the Kes, a matriarchal tribe of amazons, have already done it.”

  
“Donna, dear, surely they’re only having you on,” protested her mother. Suddenly a masked son-in-law seemed quite tame. “Amazons, indeed. Those naked women with the funny salute?”

  
“No one around here thinks it’s a joke,” said the girl with some resignation. “I’m starting to acquire more jobs than I’d like. Kit said it’s the same for him. But no one’s told him lately that an entire tribe would follow him into battle. I think it’s just a given, him being who he is. I told them I was more interested in the peaceful aspect of the Great Queen’s rule, and that only made them more certain. She was really into the peace and justice for all thing more than battle, but very good at both. If you really want to do well by your people, don’t you have to make sure they live well? War can’t do that, only peace and trade.”

  
“Spoken like a true queen,” said the laughing voice of President Luaga. “I think I hear the last plane coming in. The Chiefs are all here, the sun’s going down, and I’m starved. Tell me, o Aboma Konalh, do you endorse my administration?”

  
“Did you bring Tim’s papers?” countered Donna, as her mother went off at Konala’s hail.

  
“I certainly did,” smiled the lean, still athletic man, taking the seat Rose McLaren had vacated. “They are in with your other documents, and I’ll put them in with the wedding papers, when we sign them tomorrow. Chief Guran can take them back to the Deep Woods for you.”

  
“Then the returned spirit of Aboma approves of your rule,” intoned Donna, in her best spooky voice, only to fall off the log laughing at his expression. When she could again speak without giggling, she asked, “What did you expect me to say? That I’d run against you in the next election? Sorry, no, no thank you, I have other plans. Hard enough to stick to those, let alone go off trying to run something I’ve no experience with. After all, isn’t that why so many fighters make bad rulers? No experience in peace, only in war.”

  
“I think you’d be a better ruler than you think,” said Luaga, taking the chance to look closely at that jade amulet. “And it’s not so bad as you think, if people believe you Aboma Returned. Reputation, no matter how it is acquired, is a great asset in the jungle, as elsewhere. Look at how it helps our friend, after all. Had you the proper notoriety, perhaps you could have frightened off the cannibals without being injured. Certainly, smaller groups would think hard before crossing you.”

  
“Cannibals!” said Geoffrey McLaren in alarm. “Injured, my little girl? Donna, what have you been doing? No, never mind, I’ll never get it straight from you. Who’d tell me the truth, do you think, Mr. President?”

  
“The best story teller is Old Man Moze, there,” the lean black man said, pointing. “But Zarala was there, you know, and I’d bet she would tell you.”

  
“Would you tell me the story, Zarala?” asked Geoffrey McLaren, holding his hand out to Donna’s shadow. “Donna will never tell things right. She doesn’t lie, really, but she doesn’t tell me everything, either.”

  
“Can I, Lady Donna?” asked the tiny girl, her face eager. “I’ll tell the truth, I promise. Just like it happened.”

  
“Sure you can, partner,” laughed the blond. “He’s my father, after all. But maybe you’d best not tell Mummy. She’s not so sensible, you see. Daddy did some exciting things in his younger days, too, you know.”

  
“You did?” asked Zarala, diverted, as the older man set her on his knee. “What did you do?”

  
“No, no, you first,” Geoffrey McLaren told her. “See if you can do it before dinner, eh? Hard to talk and eat at the same time.”

  
“Can I listen, too?” asked Heloise, taking Donna’s place as she got up to play hostess to the Bakers and their last run of the day. “I never got to hear the whole story, not from Zarala. All I got was Mandy’s story, and Lt. Hayakawa’s. They didn’t have a lot of detail left in their heads when I talked to them. Even odds the Hayakawa boy is on board that plane with Mandy, though.”

  
“Yes, Lady Heloise,” nodded the tiny girl, conscious of the need to tell the story well, since others were gathering around them to listen. Many soon stood or sat about the original group, rapt at a first person account of the famous incident. Unaware of the new notoriety she was gaining, the blond was helping beach the seaplane, the bigger of the two that Baker Air flew.

  
“Hey, Donna,” greeted Mandy, wearing shorts and a T-shirt in pale blue. She dropped into the low surf with bare feet and turned around to take a long, cloth-wrapped bundle from someone inside the craft. “Here, pass this up to dry land, would you? Doesn’t want wetting. Come on, Pop, or we’ll miss dinner. Shunji, just take off your shoes and socks and jump. It’s only a little sea water, you know. Won’t melt you or anything.”

  
“You need help pulling him out?” laughed Donna, passing odd bundles of unknown objects up to the several people who had helped beach the plane. The assortment included Dr. Dorn, the two sons of the Wambesi chief, several Bandar and Jean Dumont.

  
“Naw, Pop’ll toss him out in a sec,” the brunette said over her shoulder, accepting a sort of soft-sided suitcase. “How’s it goin’, Donna? Got the jitters, yet?”

  
“Nope,” replied the blond in an exaggerated American drawl. “Only heebie-jeebies I got’s from the crowd o’ critters as is guests. Or drop in, anyhow.”

  
“Not bad, as far as accent,” the pilot told her as she walked up out of the water’s reach. “Who’s ‘dropped in’ then?”

  
“Three of the Kes tribe,” sighed Donna, explaining the gift they had brought her. “Heloise says they’ve more or less given me carte blanche to call on their tribe. Like I was queen, or something, and it’s very overwhelming.”

  
“Don’t worry,” advised the shorter woman. “He won’t let anything happen to you, after all.”

  
“I’m a’tellin’ yuh, I heard an American gal,” said an insistent male voice, the accent straight Texan. “Sounded Oklahoma, maybe, or Arizona.”

  
“There’s only Mandy and Donna out there,” said Lt. Hayakawa, dropping to the momentarily dry sand as the water ebbed. “Donna’s from New Zealand, so you must be mistaken. Come on, Tex, get a move on.”

  
“You just hold yore horses, you slanty-eyed Californio, you. I ain’t getting’ my new ‘gator boots in salt water, no sirree. That ain’t how yuh keep yer boots, is it?” the man belonging to the voice, a pleasant, slow tenor, said, emerging and jumping down into the sea without his boots. The only concession to the local environment had been the boots, however, and his jeans were soon wet to the knees.

  
“Alligators live in water,” pointed out the young Japanese-American. “How bad can it be?”

  
“Bad enough to make me forget my manners, I guess,” said the Texan, boots in one hand. Still knee deep in water, he took off his hat and nodded in the direction of the two girls. “Howdy, Miss Donna, my name is Alex Blaise, of Denton, Texas, USA. Pardon me for askin’, but was there someone else here just now? An American gal?”

  
“Sorry,” Donna told him as he put his white Stetson back on his curly blond hair. “Just me. I watch a lot of American movies and television, or did. Sometimes I get it right, I guess.”

  
“Wal, I could’a sworn you was a fellow Westerner,” the tall man said admiringly. “I’m right pleased tuh meet yuh. Mandy and Shunji, here, been tellin’ me tales ‘bout yuh, all the way from Mawitaan.”

  
“Exaggerated, I’m sure,” said Donna, as he shook her hand vigorously, and blushed. “After all, the last time the Lieutenant saw me, I was still confined to bed rest. Uh, don’t you have any shorts, Mr. Blaise? Jeans are warmer than is entirely pleasant here, and now you’ve got them wet.”

  
“Ms. Donna, I’m from Texas,” said the young man proudly. “Ain’t nowhere hotter, colder, bigger or better all in one place. I’ll be just fine. And, please, call me Alex, or Al, or Lex, not ‘Mister.’ Down home to Texas, only folks we don’t like get called that.”

  
“Ah, suit yourself, Alex,” said Donna, seeing Sam Baker drop from the plane and shut the hatch. “Hello, Mr. Baker. Prompt, as usual, I see. Please, come up to the camp, dinner will be ready soon, and you should meet everyone. The Mori Chief Kaihana brought fish, so tonight is seafood night, I think. Fried, or baked, from the smell of it.”

  
“A fish fry!” exclaimed the Texan with pleasure, hefting a huge, rolled up bundle to his shoulder and waiting for the two girls to precede him. “Ain’t been to a good fish fry in a coon’s age. And I’m nigh to eating theses here boots, too. Almost didn’t make it, see?”

  
“Difficulty finding Baker Air?” asked Donna, picking up a medium sized bundle from the sand.

  
“Leave that, Ms. Donna,” said the cowhand. “I’ll come back fer it, prob’ly ‘fore the tide gets it.”

  
“Nonsense,” said Donna and waved at the watching children who had been playing with Devil. “Come help with the packages, please,” she called in Bandar. In moments the entire pile of stuff had been moved into a pile by a lean to at the beach edge of the camp, for most of the guests were waiting around to eat, attracted by the aroma, and had helped with even the heavy things.

  
“Nah, just had trouble with Customs here. Was just startin’ thinkin’ ‘bout kickin’ up some dust when Mandy and her Pa come in and oiled the waters. No trouble after that.”

  
“All you had to say was that you were here for the wedding,” Mandy told him, tossing her overnight bag to the grass. “Didn’t they ask what you were here for?”

  
“They said ‘business or pleasure,’ an’ I said pleasure, and that didn’t satisfy ‘em,” the Texan said, stubborn determination in his green eyes. “Ain’t none of their business what kind o’ pleasure it was. Speakin’ o’ which, whereat’s the groom?”

  
“Last I saw him, he was with the Chiefs and President Gorunda,” Donna told the lean, handsome Texan. “Over there near the horses. See?”

  
“Hosses!” exclaimed the American, sitting up from his slouch. “Ain’t that white Hero? Never seen him afore, only heard about ‘im. Forget the matrimonial victim, pardon me, ma’am, I want tuh see that stud hoss.”

  
“You’re a horseman, Alex?” asked Donna, gesturing to the man, boots now on, to follow her. “Do you ride?”

  
“Shucks, Ms. Donna, I’m from the biggest ranch in Denton County, Texas,” said the man in surprise. “I can ride most anything, anyhow. Lately I been interested in the sport type o’ hoss, European, thoroughbred, Arab, crossed, pure, whatever can really perform. Most o’ what I breed are Quarters, racing Quarters by bloodline.”

  
“Well, we have thoroughbreds, mostly,” Donna told him, waving at her lover as he stood talking to the group of leaders. His flash of a smile told her he’d seen, but he didn’t stop the conversation, so she didn’t go in that direction. “Tim! Hero! Here, boys.”

  
“Tim?” said the Texan, watching the two horses walk toward them. “That handsome bay is your warhoss, then?”

  
“My faithful companion, my oldest friend,” agreed Donna, rubbing the bay’s head as he checked her for treats. “And my proposed mount for the Montreal Olympic Games. You are looking at Team Bengalla for the Eventing competition.”

  
“Whee doggies!” exclaimed the Texan. “I gotta get me tickets to that! And this here’s Hero, ain’t it? What a piece o’ hossflesh. I wonder if ol’ Kit’d mind if I sent him a few o’ my brood mares over here tuh see him. Does he breed ‘im?”

  
“He has,” said Donna, catching the Texan’s wrist as he started to raise it toward the white. “Don’t touch him, please, he’s very fussy. I think only about four people can safely handle him.”

  
“Can you?” asked the Texan, admiring the big stallion, who had become bored and was now watching the Phantom as that knot of leaders broke up. “He’s a lot o’ hoss.”

  
“Yes, she can,” said the Phantom, as Hero put his head on the masked man’s chest. “Good boy. Rides very well, gets nice dressage scores from our F.E.I. judge, Dr. Dorn. Hi, Alex, glad you could make it. How are things back at the Double B?”

  
“Same old thing, Kit,” grinned the Texan, having to look up at the man in purple. “Look at you, the image o’ yore dad, sure as shootin’. I ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout how I know yuh, not even tuh this pretty filly yuh roped. That alright with yuh?”

  
“You can tell Donna anything you like, Alex,” said the giant, scratching the stallion’s neck. “But I’d appreciate the discretion with the rest. They’re all friends, but every case is different, and I’d rather not complicate too many people’s views of the world all at once.”

  
“Sure thing, Kemosabe,” said the Texan, still looking at Hero. “You had any success breedin’ him?”

  
“No little Heroes yet, no,” regretted the Phantom, patting his horse. “Still working on it, though.”

  
“Mind if I send yuh some mares, then?” asked the American, patting Tim, who searched him for carrots. “Maybe yuh just need a little out-crossin’. Yuh keep anything shows his kind o’ promise, I’ll take the rejects. Gotta be sweet, anything he throws. Yore Tim related, Ms. Donna?”

  
“No, Tim’s New Zealand racing blood,” said the blond, her eyes bright with interest. “Quarterhorses are supposed to be really smart and quick. No distance speed, though. Even American thoroughbreds are generally short on the stamina an ANZAC bred would expect. I’d like to try breeding him to a few Akhal-teke mares, from Kazakhstan. They’re tough, strong, fast, and can go forever, so I hear. A friend of mine says they’re the real foundation of the race horse, not Arabians.”

  
“Armand Hammer’s s’posed to be buying stock from there,” mentioned the Texan. “Maybe I can get him to pick me up a few. Denton Oil can pick up the tab, if he says no. You want ‘em delivered here, or somewhere else?”

  
“Oh, I was just thinking out loud,” protested Donna, hearing the call to get washed up for dinner. “That would cost a small fortune, you know. They’re all in the Soviet Union, probably require lots of bribes, permits, even a raid to get them. No, no, just an idea. Forget that, let’s go eat. Remember, the fish fry?”

  
“Oh, yeah,” said the American. “Say, yuh wouldn’t happen to feel like showin’ off his paces, would yuh? Say after dinner? Tomorrow, afore the weddin'?”

  
“The wedding is in the afternoon,” said Donna, taking Kit’s arm and the Texan’s, leading them toward the grassy area where they would eat. “Tim and I always ride in the morning. No reason we can’t all ride tomorrow, all of us with horses, that is. Maybe a little horse race on the beach. Tim can start around two-thirds of the way back, Cookie about a third back, and Hero from the far end of the beach. Odds are he still wins.”

  
“Who’s Cookie?” said the oilman, his head turning to look for another superlative horse. “That sorrel?”

  
“No, the pinto pony,” said Donna, sitting the two men down on log seats. “Duncan gave him to Zarala, my partner in crime. That’s her, over there, coming this way.”

  
“Lady Donna,” said the small girl, proud and erect, if not tall, “you sit there and we will bring in the food. If we wait to serve it until it is all done, it will get cold, so we will bring it out as we have it. We have fruit juice and water to drink, and peaches for dessert. And then there will be presents!”

  
“Uh, well, take your time, then, Zarala,” said Donna. “Shall I come help?”

  
“No!” said the tiny girl sharply. “You are the guest of honor! It is your wedding, you do not help. That is what we do. If only your honored mother understood that! Can you get her to sit down? Please?”

  
“We’ll see,” said Donna, spotting her mother, ladle in hand. “Just a minute, Kit, I’ll be right back.”

  
“Mummy,” she said, after reaching the older woman. “Go and sit down, please. You’re embarrassing the tribe. You’re a guest, and not supposed to be cooking, let alone serving. Go sit down with Daddy and pretend you’re at an outdoor restaurant. Propriety, Mummy, propriety. Act like a lady.”

  
With a huge grin on her face, Donna returned to her lover, elated at having finally being able to throw the oft-heard words back at her mother. She didn’t look back, lest Rose McLaren see her amusement, but by the time she’d settled onto the log next to her husband-to-be, her mother was next to her father. Donna winked at Zarala as she handed out wooden cups full of water.

  
The feast went much as the one the night before, but larger, and several short speeches were made as the peaches were passed around. Much like the toasts at wedding rehearsals, they were mostly for the standard life, health, happiness and children. Some, like the short oration by the Chakar chief, Zambu, seemed more like a pep up speech before a battle, urging victory, and Donna wondered about his marriage. The Tangiru chief, Umbotha, likened their wedding to a victory over evil, which, while understood by the Council of Chiefs, made little sense to anyone else.

  
“Now, o guests of the Bandar, you Council of Chiefs, Princes and Presidents, friends of the Ghost Who Walks and of our Lady Donna McLaren,” announced the storyteller, Old Man Moze. “We show our friends our happiness by giving gifts. And none happier than that between the bridegroom and his bride.”

  
Into the firelight of early twilight stepped Toma, Zarala and Tim, his coat polished enough to reflect the light of the fire like running blood. Before the couple the bay lay down on Zarala’s command, and Toma placed a new saddle on the broad back, made to measurements taken long ago in Taihape. Donna, stunned, reached out to touch the beautiful, mahogany colored leather, each stitch perfect. She felt tears in her eyes, her throat tightened in emotion and she was suddenly kissing her fiancé while tears and sobs of happiness claimed her. By the time she was calmer, Tim and a very satisfied pair of grooms had left the circle of torches and fire rings.

  
“Oh, Kit, you’re so good to me,” sniffed the Kiwi. A little way off, Mandy observed resignedly that even after a good cry, the New Zealander looked beautiful. “And I haven’t got anything to give you.”

  
“No one’s giving me presents, darling,” he chuckled. “These are presents for you. All I want is you. What else could I need? Just promise me you won’t collect a harem, like Aboma.”

  
“Men are so insecure,” she whispered as she kissed his cheek, hearing the crowd commenting around them. “I never, ever want anyone but you, o Ghost Who Walks, my first and last husband.”

  
“Then I am happy, dearest,” he whispered back. “Now, sit up and try to be polite for a few hours, then you can give me my present. Okay?”

  
“Yes, dear,” said Donna softly, with one last squeeze. “I’ll try.”

  
“That’s my wife,” he said, his arm around her shoulders. “Or close, anyway. Alright, now, no more crying.”

  
“And from those who raised our beloved Lady Donna,” announced the lame master of ceremonies, as if nothing had interrupted him previously, “a gift for our great friend, the Keeper of the Peace.”

  
With the help of several eager Bandar, Geoffrey McLaren brought forward a wooden crate and several smaller boxes. He handed each of the pair a box and opened the crate. Beautifully fluted silver and gold goblets were in the two packages, and the crate held a case of New Zealand’s best champagne.

  
“For tomorrow,” the executive explained. “So you can toast with the rest of us at the reception. You are staying for the reception, aren’t you?”

  
“Better be tonight, Daddy,” said Donna, firmly. “We’re leaving right after the wedding. Everyone else gets to stay and gorge, but we’ll be off on our honeymoon.”

  
“Oh, well, then tonight,” agreed the proud father. The way all these important people treated both his future son-in-law and his daughter had gone far toward convincing him of all the things Heloise had told him. He wanted to show everyone how much he loved his daughter, and with a hurried conference with Guran, all the bottles but one were hastily opened and everyone who wanted any had some in their wooden cups.

  
“Now, honored guests, future relatives, friends and family,” said Geoffrey McLaren in his best sea voice. “I give you a toast! To my beloved little girl, her future husband, and all the happiness marriage brings! May you live happily ever after and soon give us grandchildren!”

  
Cheers greeted this, and the crowd soon had finished off the champagne. The bottles, neatly recorked, were put back in the crate for future use, and would be set outside the Jade Hut. The single unopened bottle, and the goblets the couple had used, would be placed inside, on display. Well satisfied with reactions to his unplanned speech, Donna’s father sat back down with his wife.

“And from the People of the Trees, a symbol of life, a young _val_ tree, which will grow as will your union, strong, tall, fruitful.” The Chief of the Tree People, decked for the night in a fanciful outfit of green, leaf-like leather, brought forward a very healthy-looking seedling, it’s roots in a ball of soil wrapped in tough cloth. This was set carefully behind them, with the champagne case.

From the Oogaan came a pair of bows, one slightly smaller than the other, and many arrows, all the work of master craftsmen. From the Wambesi, a ceremonial spear of wood and gold, not intended for real use, Mbele assured her, but to serve as a scepter or staff at special occasions, or a call to his tribe, if their warriors were needed. Donna thought it quite the most beautiful spear she had ever seen, and said so, to the old Chief’s obvious pleasure. The Llongo brought out beautifully worked set of arm and leg guards, meant to be worn in battle, Chief Lagana told her, of leather for lightness, but treated for a strength just short of steel. And he surprised her with an additional set for Tim, matching her own.

  
“Oh, Chief Lagana,” said Donna, feeling tears threaten again. “Thank you so much for remembering Tim. His legs are really much more delicate than he makes them seem.”

  
“It was my wife, Millani, who thought of them,” admitted the elderly chief. “She will be pleased that you said so.”

  
The Mori gave her a mother-of-pearl inlaid fishing spear, which looked like a harpoon to Donna. Other things included a very elaborate, but far too small, bridle set with gold and silver from the Bedir, a desert tribe. And elaborate fur cloak from one of the mountain tribes, a very ferocious-looking mask meant to be worn in battle, and many other things. It was obvious that her fame had spread like wind-blown dust, for fully half the gifts Donna received were weapons, or war gear in the style of the tribe they came from. Donna loved it, even as it worried her just a little. Once, as the huge Prince Lothar handed her a small box, her jade amulet, Apakura’s totem, awoke with a glow of green fire, pulsed like a heartbeat, then died away.

  
Inside the box lay a small, jeweled bracelet, of gold and jade, similar to the heitiki. A small note, in a neat, cultured hand, written on vellum stated ‘for protection from evil,’ and Donna put it on right away. Obviously, Apakura approved of it, so it should be worn. It fit with all the inconspicuousness of a wristwatch, and Donna soon forgot it.

  
Duncan McLeod gave her a beautiful samurai-style sword, a thing of elegant, deadly grace, and, he assured her, good, top-class steel. Such a blade would be easy to conceal in more civilized surroundings, Donna realized, as it was a _wakazashi_ , not the longer _katana_.

  
Alex Blaise, with suitable Texan panache, brought out a set of long-fringed suede chaps and a white Stetson, remarking that many Americans were now using chaps to school their horses in. Donna could see that it might be advantageous to have suede all over the leg on a fractious young horse, liable to buck or refuse.

  
At last, with no announcement of her relationship to the Phantom, and with the help of several others, including Zarala and Toma, Heloise led six horses into the area, one by one. A black mare, a gray mare and a chestnut, all thoroughbreds, from New Zealand, and two polo ponies, even smaller than Cookie, looking thoroughbred as well, one seal brown, the other sorrel. The last was a big, muscular gelding, blue roan in color, with the look of confidence in his eyes.

  
“This is my eventer,” Heloise announced, patting his neck. “The others are yours to do as you please with, but I’d like you to work with Rifleman, here, with that in mind. He’s of the Carbine line, so they tell me, and he’s very talented.”

  
“Better bred than Tim, then,” said Donna, impressed. “Didn’t he belong to the Tates?”

  
“Yes, he was very well trained, in the basics,” said Heloise, as everyone else began to go to bed, for it was very late. “I convinced them to part with him after your father helped with negotiations.” Hero could be heard making the acquaintance of the mares.

  
That night, in their treetop nest, Donna gave her lover a foretaste of what the next night would bring, with the result that he still slept as the sun found them. Donna lay in his arms as he slept, content as a cat on a favored human’s lap. Here in his strong body was the assurance that Aboma’s ghost was powerless over her, that the Atuamoana was a force that would aid, not harm. His spirit, and his ancestor’s spirits, would surely keep evil forces at bay, at least it seemed certain that they could do so today. Too bad her parents and his couldn’t have at least met.


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> racing and actual wedding

When he did awaken, they carefully dressed and descended, the day bright with promise. As they stood in the gloomy early morning jungle at the base of ‘their’ tree, kissing sensuously, Donna began to hear other movement, quiet, almost furtive. It seemed that activity had been held in abeyance until they had awakened, lest they be disturbed too early from their rest.

  
“You know, I think I told you once that I didn’t care about ceremony,” Donna said softly, as he held her and she held him. “But I was wrong. You were right, dearest. I am looking forward to this. Not so much for me, but for all the other people here. Jula is working like a slave and enjoying every minute, Mummy is having the time of her life, even if she finds her sense of proper decorum undermined now and then. Daddy is having tons of fun, and we might have to kick him out to get him to go home.”

  
“Well, you know, darling Donna,” said the dark shape she held, warm but indistinct in the gloom reaches of the jungle floor, “most women are thought to set more of their hearts on their weddings. People here think you do, too, so they want to make this as nice as possible for you.”

  
“I’ve never had so much bother over me before,” she confessed to the piece of shadow that she held. “It’s nice, but a little scary. I just have to keep thinking that tonight I’ll have you all to myself. I will, won’t I, Kit? All by ourselves somewhere?”

  
“Yes, darling, all to ourselves,” he assured her, kissing her again. “Now, let’s go have breakfast. Last night made me hungry.”

  
“And if you had any extra body fat to loose, I didn’t find it,” Donna agreed, as arm in arm, they came out onto the beach. The Jade hut was now surrounded with gifts from the night before, including a few Donna didn’t remember. Bandar were everywhere, busily and silently scurrying about like purposeful mice. Each one who passed the couple gave a cheerful greeting, and soon silence was no longer observed. Donna and the Phantom passed the horses and saw that, with Toma’s help, Zarala already had Tim and Cookie saddled, and was watching the young man tack up Hero.

  
Alex Blaise was patting Rifleman’s neck as he watched, his eyes never leaving the stallion. He actually started when the Phantom passed a hand before his rapt face.

  
“Huh?” he said, looking around. “Oh, mornin’, folks. Say, yuh said sometin’ last night ‘bout a race, didn’t yuh, ma’am?”

  
“Yes,” said Donna as Tim whuffled his own greeting to her. “Have you had breakfast?”

  
“No, ma’am, I ain’t been hungry, yet. Plane flight’s got my system all messed up. The local chiefs’re all excited over a race, just like back home. If’n they all had a horse b’tween ‘em they’d be competin’ too. As it is, I think yore pappy’s got a boat race in the works.”

  
“Ah, since Heloise brought so many more horses, and all in very good condition, perhaps we could add a few more races to the card,” Donna said, thinking that the Bandar would probably appreciate having everyone out from underfoot. “Come and have something to eat, Alex. You need to have something or you won’t last until noon.”

  
“Come on, Alex, listen to the lady,” chuckled the Phantom, as he and Donna went looking for fruit. “Maybe she’ll tell you how we met.”

  
“Heard that story from her little pard,” he called after them. “Y’all bring me back a banana, will yuh?”

  
“He’s as horse mad as you, darling,” the masked giant told his near-wife, as they finished the last of the peaches, saved for them by Guran’s strict orders. With a bunch of bananas in hand, they strolled back down to the beach, where Donna’s father and Chief Kaihana were organizing two boat crews out of the other guests. Those Mori who had crewed the boats were showing the nautical novices how to hold paddles and rolling their eyes theatrically at questions.

  
“You get your horse race first, Donna,” Geoffrey McLaren said to his daughter as the Phantom had a few words with the gathered non-boaters. “It’ll take an hour or so to get these beginners their sea legs. Not a bad way to keep the guests busy while the decorations are put up, eh?”

  
“I had the same thought, Daddy,” said Donna, as her father took a banana from the dozen she carried. “Where’s Mummy?”

  
“Helping, I’m sure,” sighed the New Zealander. “But Jula and Guran are her match, I’m certain. How did you sleep last night?”

  
“Quite well, when I finally got to sleep,” said Donna, blushing, and making the watching natives grin and nudge each other. “Why? You didn’t?”

  
“Mm, no, just odd dreams,” said her father, running a hand through his graying hair. “I kept dreaming of you and Kit, and another Phantom and another woman. They were older, it seemed to me, but it was all very congenial. Must have been the fish and champagne.”

  
“Must have been,” agreed Donna, knowing in her heart that it had not. “Chief Kaihana wants you, Daddy.”

  
“Ah, yes,” said her father, stuffing his mouth with the last of the banana and chewing quickly. “Splendid fellow.”

  
“Come, Donna,” said her lover, taking her hand again. “Alex is not very patiently waiting to see the horses perform for him. Do you want to ride Hero or Tim?”

  
“Oh, you ride Hero,” said Donna quickly. “No sense in advertising that other folks can ride him. A little warm up with some dressage, then races? Everyone knows Hero is faster than anything, you don’t have to run him.”

  
“Oh, Alex is an old friend,” her lover said with a laugh. “Disappoint him not to see Hero open up. Besides, all the others want to watch, too. Hey, Duncan, Heloise, Dr. Dorn. Not on the boat teams?”

  
“No, we’re the second race on the card,” the dark immortal told him, saddle in hand. “Fact is, we have enough horses for three, or even four races, really. Just not enough riders.”

  
“Heloise, are you going to ride Rifleman?” asked Donna of the tall, gray-clad woman. “You can use Tim’s old saddle, but I’m not sure I have a girth.”

  
“Oh, he’s got all his tack,” the Rakshasa told her, patting the huge blue roan. “So have the polo ponies. But the mares don’t have anything but halters. Maybe one race should be bareback, eh?”

  
“That would be fun,” Donna said and looked over at the Texan. “Ride against me, Alex?”

  
“And be outclassed in front o’ everyone?” said the blond American with a grin. “Shore ‘nuff. Who else’ll ride with us, since we got three o’ them nice mares?”

"Oh, I will,” Duncan said, his accent less noticeable today. “But I get the gray, her withers look less, uh, dangerous.”

  
“That just means she’s slower,” scoffed the Texan. “I’ll take the black, she’s a fine, fast lookin’ gal. Less’n you’d be wantin’ her, Ms. Donna.”

  
“No, no, I’ll take the chestnut,” said Donna, liking the proud head and kind eye of the red mare. “She’ll be good, you’ll see. I like her.”

  
“Lady Donna, can we start now?” asked Zarala, anxiously. “We’ll be out in the heat, otherwise.”

  
”All aboard, then, partner,” said Donna, boosting the pygmy girl into her new saddle. “Dr. Dorn are you riding in the races?”

  
“Nein, nein,” said the tall German, in his best serious Prussian voice. His twinkling eyes belied his solemn face. “I am the racing secretary, the starter and the announcer. Any bribes may be made now. I go to set up the finish line.”

  
“And I am to take pictures, non?” laughed the Frenchman, Jean Dumont. “I am le photo finish, nec’pas? Ah, mon ami, you were correct about there being much to photograph here, and not just your enchanting bride. Dolphins, the sea, the remarkable chateau, horse racing, it is paradise itself. How can you leave it to go deal with criminals, foolish photographers, poachers and warfare?”

  
“Because, if I did not, there would be no peace here, or elsewhere,” replied the Phantom, mounting Hero with the easy grace Donna so loved. “And many would suffer. It is my Oath and my conscience, Jean. Wouldn’t you do the same?”

  
As the Phantom turned Hero to join the others in warming up exercised, the photographer shook his head and said quietly, “No, I am not certain that I would. But I, and many another, must be glad that you do. At least you now have someone to share it with.”

  
“You Frenchies allus were a philosophical lot,” said the Texan, watching the three horses and their riders. “He ain’t built tuh go back on his word, nor sit back when he could be helpin’. And he has prime luck with women and hosses. Say, Duncan, what kind a hosses you got?”

  
After thoroughly warming up the three horses, and impressing Alex deeply, the three checked on the finish line and got their directions straight. Hero would start at the end of the beach, Tim half way between Hero and Cookie. The boat crews were now out on the lagoon, industriously catching crabs, and would have good views of the beach. Everyone not actually working on the preparations would be watching. The Mori Chief ceded the honor of starting the race to his first paddler, the President Luaga. After cantering to their handicap positions, the trio waited with dancing hooves for the signal to run.

  
Lamanda Luaga, wearing only a pair of swim trunks, waved his oar in the air and brought it down into the water, to the cheers of those aboard and ashore. Each horse lunged forward on the hard-packed sand, urged by his rider and many a voice in the scattered audience. Hero closed the distance rapidly, his speed truly awesome, but both Tim and Cookie did their best. Donna had underestimated the little Arab pony’s speed, however, and he crossed the finish line a few lengths ahead of both the bay and the stallion.

  
Zarala and many of the Bandar children were in transports of joy at the result, although all conceded that it hadn’t been really fair. As Jokan willingly led the victor off to cool down, Zarala confided to her idol that she could now see why Donna had wanted to be a jockey. Toma nodded as he put Zarala’s saddle on the sorrel polo pony, a mare. He knew the thrill, even if it had been forced on him. He would ride the seal brown mare, who had come with her own tack. He was larger by only a little than an adult Bandar, but the saddles the polo ponies had come with were made for regular sized people, as defined by Europeans and coastal Bengallans.

  
The boaters needed more practice, as they had stopped to watch the race, so Donna, Alex and Duncan warmed up the three thoroughbred mares. Riding bareback, Donna found the chestnut mare to be a perfect fit. Though her withers were high, and she was narrow, the rider’s legs and seat fit easily where they belonged. The mare was a little hard on the mouth, but not enough to bother the blond. She watched the two men, approving of their horsemanship and wondering if they realized her advantages, in weight, practice and physical build. She’d always thought women more designed for riding, and had her lover opted for this event, she would have asked him not to. She had no desire to have that part of him injured or even bruised at this point.

  
“These here hosses is nice, Ms. Donna,” the Texan said as they cantered slowly down the beach to the starting line. “Maybe I’ll have tuh send me a bloodstock agent there, next!”

  
“Wait until they run for you,” advised the Highlander, now wearing only his khaki shorts. “It might change your mind. These mares never used a starting gate, after all.”

  
“Okay, you two, settle down,” said the American, patting his gray mare’s neck. “Where at’s the starter? Ah, looks like it’s yore Pa, Donna. The flag is up… Yeehah!”

  
The second race was much more of a contest than the first, and Donna won by only a length, beating the Highlander on the black. Alex, on his gray, was only a half length back, having given even Duncan at least fifty pounds, and was not at all put out by his finish. The three then walked with their horses as the boat race, a comedy of errors, finally started.

  
The race on the water was won by the Mori Chief’s boat, mostly because he only had to stop to rescue paddles and paddlers twice, rather than the three times Geoffrey McLaren did. Dolphins and land bound spectators alike seemed highly amused, laughing at the inept attempts at speed. The dolphins tail walked in front of each prow as though to show the way, or spy-hopped to get closer looks. All in all, though strenuously tried, the crews of both boats agreed that it had been fun, but not a draw to future contests. The Mori Chief and Donna’s father had as much fun recalling their race, and mistakes, as they had during the competition, and were on first name terms before they had dried out.

  
“Alright, people, place yore bets!” shouted Alex, the three final contestants, who had been warming up during the boat race, cantered down to the starting line. Zarala had confided to Donna before hand that she felt a certain trepidation about asking the sorrel mare she rode to stop. Donna had given both Toma and her shadow a quick lesson on stopping polo ponies from full gallops.

  
“And if that doesn’t work,” she told them seriously, “point them at the water. That’ll stop them. Can’t run in water, and a swimming horse comes to his senses pretty fast.”

  
“But the saddles will get salt water on them,” protested Zarala, recalling clearly that leather and salt water didn’t mix. And she had been shocked at the lack of proper oiling that their tack had come with.

  
“Rather clean tack than scrape you off the rocks,” Donna told her, as she waved them on their way.

  
This race actually had a favorite with the crowd, who thought Rifleman the horse to beat. In vain Donna told the people near her that Toma had, to some degree ridden professionally, and that the two smaller horses were hard fit and fast. Donna enhanced her reputation somewhat, when she proved correct. Toma and his dark bay were a neck ahead of Zarala and the sorrel, with the heavier blue roan three lengths back. Donna noted, however, that Rifleman had not been urged, and was pleased that Heloise had let the gelding hit a natural pace. Had he tried too hard to match the wind-swift ponies, with their lighter weight, he might have hurt himself, and that would have been foolish.

  
“Ah, that’s my kinda mornin’,” sighed the Texan, his erstwhile mount now grazing with the others. “That Ms. Heloise sure can pick hosses, ‘ceptin’ for herself. I do hope that there Rifleman jumps better than he runs.”

  
“Most ex-racers that end up in eventing were just too slow for the track,” Donna told him, helping Zarala remove her gear from the little sorrel. “Polo ponies are only too slow because they’re small, you see. How did you like her, partner?”

  
“Oh, she’s fast!” exclaimed the still breathless girl, checking the slender legs. “And look, she’s not breathing as hard as I am!”

  
“Nothing quite as fit as a polo horse,” agreed the blond. “Walk her a little, then you can come have lunch. We’ll need a few more names for horses, won’t we?”

  
“Didn’t they have names before?” asked Alex as the tiny girl led the now-placid pony away. “A friend o’ mine back home names his string after movie stars, and a lot seemed to be named after liquor, these days. Yuh got one named ‘Cookie,’ maybe that one should be ‘Brownie,’ or ‘Cupcake.’”

  
“Zarala gets to name them,” Donna said, watching the three horses walking along the grassy, tree lined stretch of the beach beyond the Jade Hut. “See if one doesn’t get called ‘Peaches,’ though!”

  
“Well, it’s getting toward lunch, ain’t it?” asked the blond Texan, his hat back on his head. “And shouldn’t you be getting all gussied up, ma’am? I heard tell you an’ the pilot gal and his sister have got some glad rags all made special.”

  
“Oh, no!” laughed Donna, “you’ve broken the spell. Here come the keepers of the glass slippers!”

  
“Lady Donna,” called Jula, her assistants in tow. “Come, we must get you dressed for the ceremony! You must have a bath and your hair must be done. And where are Lady Heloise and Mandy Baker?”

  
“Mandy was on the boat team with Chief Kaihana,” Donna told her, walking toward the dress designer. “Heloise is still walking her horse out. If you need her right away, Alex could probably take care of Rifleman for her.”

  
“They will be less important than you, Lady Donna,” the headwoman told her sternly. “Go with Konala and Danila, please. They will get you cleaned, fed and ready for the ceremony. You must eat, but you will not have time to eat with the others if we are to have you ready. We will have food packed for your evening meal, so you need not delay your departure for that.”

  
“Yes, ma’am,” said Donna meekly, feeling quite pampered, but a little lonely. Like sessions at the beauty parlor that her mother had forced on her, this promised nothing but time to work herself into a state of nerves. If only Mandy and Heloise were captured as well, she thought, they might at least talk. And she’d never really found the time for that yet.

  
As Donna was bathed and adorned like a prize poodle, the rest of the guests were having a light midday meal, reliving the morning’s successes and humorous failures. Zarala had a short break to get some food for she and her new friend Toma, before disappearing with he and Tim into the jungle. Hero, too, was gone, both the stallion and the gelding being bathed and dried, combed and dressed. Zarala regretted the size problem with the jeweled bridle, which would have glittered brightly against the bay’s dark head.

  
The two bridesmaids, and the best man, had plenty of time to get dressed up, as did the two Presidents, and all the Chiefs. The entire area around the Jade Hut and the seating logs was piled with flowers, the Bandar bedecked with blooms and bright clothes. The Chiefs all put on their finest regalia, each guest brought out their best. Duncan was resplendent in his Highland kit, sword at his side. Devil wore orchids in his collar and all the Mori boat crews were draped in woven chains of coral, pearls and jungle flowers.

  
Donna, bathed and primped and dressed by the experts, had not been bored after all, for the three women had heard every detail about the Walton Ripper case from Rose McLaren, and repeated it perfectly from memory. They had also heard what Professor Archer and Colonel Weeks had said to each other, thinking that no one heard them.

  
“The Colonel, he says nothing of his Commander, as is right,” confided Konala, as she wove pearls into Donna’s hair. “He listens to everything the Professor says, then tells him of a story reported to him by one of his men. He told him of the evil men who led the Ghost Who Walks to you, as well. I do not know if he only repeated the words of his nephew, or if he deduced some of it himself, but he knows much of the incident and your meeting. He told the Professor that he privately found it quite romantic.”

  
“Well, it was, don’t you think?” asked Donna, carefully not moving her head. “I still get chills when I think about how close I came to loosing him after the fire.”

  
“Don’t think of that now,” commanded Jula, having carefully arranged the blond on a clean bolt of cloth spread under the trees. “You will shiver and become nervous, which will disarrange your dress. Think instead of the dolphins, your horse, how your honored mother will cry when she sees you.”

  
“Oh, do you think she will?” asked Donna with a smile. “Surely she will be too happy to cry. All I want to do is say ‘I do’ in front of everyone, kiss him and ride off on our honeymoon. He still hasn’t told me where we’re going, Jula. Do you know?”

  
“Oh, yes,” said Danila, concentrated on the bouquet the bride would carry, a lovely trailing arrangement of orchids and flowering vines. Jula hadn’t answered because her mouth was full of pearl ropes. “You will enjoy it, Lady Donna. It is not far, but it is very private.”

  
“Jula,” called a voice that Donna recognized as Tula, the librarian’s. “The musicians are ready, everything is in place. How much longer do you need?”

  
“You can seat everyone now, sister,” said the headwoman, with a last critical look at the dress, and a twitch at the pearls. “We only need to arrange the veil.”

  
“And to move this ring to your right hand,” said Konala, doing so. “That makes room for your wedding ring. It is good that you chose the green trim, for it goes well with your totem. The goddess will not feel left out this way, even though the pearls catch the eye far more.”

  
“Unless she makes herself known again,” said Jula, getting the hood-like veil of transparent material arranged to her satisfaction. “There. Danila, the flowers. Now, carefully, do not trip, or brush against the trees.”

  
“Yes, Mummy,” said Donna, rising from the carefully set chair, while Konala and Danila gathered her skirt up to protect it. “Strange, how you and my mother are so alike, Jula, but I like you better. Does that make me a bad daughter?”

  
“No, no,” scolded the tiny woman, touched by Donna’s words. “Only one who has not known me long enough, I think. I have learned much about you from the Lady Rose, some of whose opinions I do not agree with, and you may be surprised at what I know of you now.”

  
“Oh, no, Mummy told you about the Jell-O incident, didn’t she,” exclaimed the woman in white as they made their way out into the grassy park. “It really wasn’t my fault that time, I swear.”

  
“Enough, Lady Donna,” said Jula, gesturing to the two who held the skirts. “Here is your bouquet, and here are your bridesmaids. Now, see, there he waits for you, child. Walk slowly, so all may see your beauty. Men should have to wait for some things, even the Ghost Who Walks.”

  
Donna tried to proceed with slow dignity, following the two women who entered first, to stand at one side of the Jade Hut. Their encouraging smiles were lost on Donna, who had eyes only for the man who stood tall and motionless before the heap of flowers that served as an altar. Others there might think him calm and composed, but she saw the twitch of his jaw muscles, the flutter of his pulse beneath the silk at his neck. She heard nothing of the admiring comments as she passed, or the sounds of Jean Dumont’s camera as her father took her arm to lead her to her husband.

  
She actually heard very little of the ceremony, except the words he said, and only barely got out her own vows, stumbling over her own name, but never his. It made sense to her now, the phrase ‘repeat after me,’ for she could not have remembered her lines, not without coaching. The ring he put on her hand this time was a beautiful square-cut emerald of great size, set in gold with tiny diamonds surrounding it. She didn’t see the blaze it made when they kissed each other, but others saw, and some were at an angle that allowed them to see both her bracelet and pendant glow, as well. Dandoli nodded in satisfaction, sure that the spirits blessed the union. Not that there had ever been any doubt.

  
Donna turned in a daze of pleasure, joy in every atom of her being, to see her own happiness reflected in each face of the crowd before her. By her parents stood two people of faintly familiar look, and one whose face she’d never expected to see again. By the light that shone from them, Donna realized without a trace of fear, that the people with Professor Temotu were Kit’s parents. They smiled at her as everyone else was doing, two tall white people, and the almost Bandar-sized Temotu. Oddly, the former Phantom wore no costume, only a sort of robe and shirt of dark silk, as if only the living heir to the Line could wear the costume. Professor Temotu wore his traditional tohunga finery, with a smile that told his pleasure at her happiness. That gnomish grin did much to erase Donna’s guilt and sorrow over his death. The woman in slightly dated safari clothing of dazzling white looked every bit as much a part of her husband as she had been in life, and as pleased.

  
The couple, now officially a pair, moved down the wide aisle between the cheering crowd, not certain who was supporting whom. At the end waited Hero, Tim, and their two holders, Zarala and Toma. The bay was decked out in the tiger skin, flowers and ribbons, his new saddle and the bridle from New Zealand. He looked very proud and was standing in his photograph pose, which he used for winning big shows. Hero, a dazzling white, had flowers twined in his mane, tail and around his breastplate. He was standing alertly, head raised to watch his master for signals. Donna got her skirts arranged on her saddle, then tossed her bundle of flowers to the crowd.

  
Mandy Baker, to her own surprise, caught the thing out of the air, and exchanged looks with Shunji Hayakawa, and then her father. Donna laughed at that look, guessing what it meant.

  
Then her lover was mounted next to her, his hand on her reins, and leading Tim away from the crowd. She followed him into the jungle to the cheers of her friends, his friends and other well wishers. The Phantom and his bride, married at last, disappeared into the jungle on their way to the Isle of Eden, and a long night of loving.


End file.
